"Will you bring me the cologne from my dressing-table, honey? My head aches so."
And, as Page ran towards the door, she added: "And my hand mirror, too. Are my eyes all swollen?"
And that was the last word upon the subject between the two sisters.
But the evening of the same day, between eight and nine o'clock, while Laura was searching the shelves of the library for a book with which to while away the long evening that she knew impended, Corthell's card was brought to her.
"I am not at home," she told the servant. "Or—wait," she added. Then, after a moment's thought, she said: "Very well. Show him in here."
Laura received the artist, standing very erect and pale upon the great white rug before the empty fireplace. Her hands were behind her back when he came in, and as he crossed the room she did not move.
"I was not going to see you at first," she said. "I told the servant I was not at home. But I changed my mind—I wanted to say something to you."
He stood at the other end of the fireplace, an elbow upon an angle of the massive mantel, and as she spoke the last words he looked at her quickly. As usual, they were quite alone. The heavy, muffling curtain of the doorway shut them in effectually.
"I have something to say to you," continued Laura. Then, quietly enough, she said:
"You must not come to see me any more."