"I'm so glad—you always have a good time there."
Lorry appeared in the doorway. The room was nearly dark, the last blue light slanting in through the uncurtained window. By its faint illumination she saw Chrystie's face in the mirror, glum and unsmiling. It was not the expression with which the youngest Miss Alston generally greeted calls to festivals.
"What's the matter, Chrystie?" she said. "Don't you want to go?"
The girl wheeled round sharply.
"Of course I do. Why shouldn't I? Did you ever know me not want to go to a dance?"
"Then you'd better write and accept at once. They're probably putting up other people and they'll want to know if you're coming."
"I'll do it tonight. There's no such desperate hurry; I can phone down.
There's your letter on the bureau."
She threw herself on the bed, a long, formless shape in the shadowy corner. She lay there without speaking as Lorry took her letter to the window and read it. It was from Mrs. Kirkham; a friend had sent her a box for the opera on Tuesday night and she invited both girls. It would be a great occasion, everybody was going, Caruso was to sing. Lorry looked up from it, quite dismayed; it was too bad that Chrystie would miss it. But Chrystie from the darkness of the bed said she didn't care; she'd rather dance than hear Caruso, or any other singing man—music bored her anyhow. Lorry left her and went into her own room to write an acceptance for herself and regrets for her sister.
At nine that night Mark was sitting by his table, his book on his knee, his eyes on the smoke wreaths that lay across the air in light layers, when his dreams were broken by a knock on his door. It was his landlady with a telegram:
"Mother very sick. Pneumonia. Come at once. SADIE."