Edith renewed her sobbing. “I don’t know what to do—I can’t let him stay there in town, in all the heat. It would kill him.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t. Bobbie isn’t as frail as all that. Of course he’d be better off here, but I guess he’ll survive.”
“Then you do advise me to give up the money?” Edith’s voice held a note almost of anger.
“Not at all. I advise you to give it to mother. That will satisfy everybody—especially mother.”
“And you, I suppose,” remarked Edith petulantly.
“Oh—I don’t care a rap. I’m too happy, thinking about Emerson, to care about money. All that I ask is that you patch things up somehow, so as to avoid a scandal.” She turned to go. “Just suppose, Edith, that Donald had been on the point of leaving you with some other woman, and the woman had died, and left him a fortune. Would you like to spend any of it? Think it over. Good-by, now. We’ve got to hurry, to make that train.”
Mrs. Pope looked in for a moment on her way downstairs. “Cheer up, my dear,” she said. “Don’t let this thing worry you into a spell of sickness. I’ll arrange everything. I’m going to let Donald see that he isn’t the only one to be considered in this matter. The greatest good of the greatest number—that’s my policy. I won’t have any high-flown theatrical nonsense spoil your life.”
“Mother,” Edith called after her, “please be careful what you say.” Mrs. Pope paid no attention to her. The militant-looking feather upon her large black hat wagged ominously as she strode down the stairs. “Idiot!” she muttered to herself. “Why can’t he act like a sensible human being?”
Left to herself, Edith started once more the treadmill of thought which whirled around and around in a circle, and left her always just where she had begun. No matter how she strove to justify Donald in his anger, the dread specter of poverty grinned at her through all her arguments, and her resolutions fled. She looked about the room. The rose pink velvet carpet, the soft white bearskin rug beside the bed, the lovely wall paper, the exquisite hangings, the graceful mahogany furniture, all called to her compellingly. One of the maids, entering soft-footed, brought her some bouillon and the breast of a chicken, on a silver tray. The servant moved about noiselessly, pulling down the shades to shut out the afternoon sun. Edith drew her clinging silk night-dress about her throat, and sat up.
“Will madam have a glass of sherry?” the maid asked, as she removed an immense bunch of roses from the low wicker table, and placed the tray upon it.