It took Edith Rogers many weeks to make up her mind to spend any of William West’s money, and then she did it on account of Bobbie. Her mother had used every effort to convince her that she was acting like a fool in not launching out at once upon a career of wild extravagance, but the thought of her love for West, the folly she had contemplated, the latter’s sudden and tragic death, all filled her with horror. The money lay idly in the bank, and she could not bring herself to touch it.
With the coming of the hot weather, however, she began to listen to her mother’s arguments with a more willing ear. Bobbie was clearly not well. His cough, product of a March cold, still hung on in spite of all her efforts. His appetite was failing, his cheeks pale and wan. She felt the desirability of getting him away from the oven-like city at once, and one evening broached the subject to Donald.
“Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “that I ought to take Bobbie to the seashore?”
Donald looked up quickly. “I do, indeed,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time.”
“Then why haven’t you said anything about it?”
“I was waiting for you, dear. I know how you have felt about using this money that West left you, and I hesitated to suggest it on that account.”
“Do you think I ought to use it?”
“I can see no reason why you should not. His wish was that you should have it. He wanted you to enjoy it, otherwise he would not have left it to you. I regretted the poor old chap’ death quite as keenly as you did, but for all that I cannot see why you should feel so strongly about this money.”
Edith knew very well that he could not see why she felt as she did, nor had she any intention of allowing him to do so. “Very well,” she replied quietly. “I think I’ll look for a cottage somewhere along the Sound to-morrow. That would be much nicer than staying at a hotel, and you could come down every week end. In fact, Donald, I don’t see why you couldn’t just as well give up business altogether, and spend the summer with us. In the fall we might go abroad.”