"Lord, but I'm sick of it all!" she exclaimed petulantly.
Kimberly used care not to offend, yet he always interposed a screen between himself and her, and however delicate the barrier, Lottie Nelson had never been able to penetrate it.
"No sicker of it than I am," he returned. "But I'm a part of the machine; I can't get out. I suppose you are, and you can't get out. But you are too young to talk like that; wait till the new home is finished. Then you will shine."
She uttered a contemptuous exclamation, not quite loud enough for the others to hear, as she reëntered the room. The others, in fact, scarcely would have heard. Fritzie, Doane, and Dora Morgan were laughing immoderately. Imogene at the piano was playing softly. Kimberly stopped to speak to her.
"I forgot, by the way, to ask you when you sail, Imogene," he said.
She answered with one hand running over the keys: "That depends on you, doesn't it, Robert? I do hope you'll get through soon."
"Anxious to get away, are you?"
"You know I always am."
"Where are you going this time?"
"To the Mediterranean, I suppose."