Katharine and Hester had seen but little of one another during the battle of the will, and a certain awkwardness and reticence had appeared between them, which Katharine attributed altogether to the question of the fortune. As has been seen, however, it had another source on Hester’s side, and one much more likely to produce results that might hurt one or the other or both of them. As for Katharine, it was characteristic of her that she attempted to return to the former cordiality of their relations as soon as the matter of the inheritance had been settled.
She found Hester cold and unsympathetic, but she excused her on the ground of the family dispute, and of the very great disappointment the Crowdies must have suffered from the decision of the court. The conversation turned upon indifferent matters and languished, as they sat together in the pretty little room at the front of the house. It was late in the afternoon, and the smell of the spring came in through the open windows.
“It’s getting very dull in New York,” said Hester, after a long pause. “I think we shall go out of town soon, this year.”
She suppressed a yawn with her diaphanous hand, as she leaned back in her corner of the sofa, staring vacantly at an etching which hung on the opposite wall, and wishing that Katharine would go. Then she rang the bell, having thought of tea as a possible antidote to dulness.
“I suppose we shall go away, too,” said Katharine, wondering what the summer was to be like.
The servant came, and got his orders, and went out, and Hester almost yawned again.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, half apologetically. “I’m so sleepy.”
“You’ll be all right after you’ve had some tea,” answered Katharine, trying to think of something pleasant to say, and finding nothing.
“I hope so,” observed the elder woman. “This is awful. I’m conscious of being dreadfully dull.”
“It’s probably the reaction,” suggested Katharine.