“You might as well say all you have to say,” she said, slowly. “I don’t in the least see what you’re up to—but then I never did.”
“No, dear, you never did,” responded Cora, smiling as if in pleased retrospect. “But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t be a good sister to you. If it’s one’s nature to be a good sister, why, then one will be—and there you are, don’t you see? I take no credit to myself for it.”
“Go on,” said the other. The two women spoke in hushed whispers, and with each sentence stole glances of precaution toward the sleeper.
“Well, Frank, I look to you not to forget what I’ve done. I spent two or three very hard hours last night talkin’ him round, and singin’ your praises to him—and I put Covent Garden into his head, too—-and here he is! And I kept Eddy and Gus off his back, too—they were frightfully keen to get at him—but I said no, and I held ’em to heel. It was all for you, dear. They might have queered the whole pitch, if I’d given ’em their heads. But now about myself. I’m tired, dead tired, of bein’ poor. Of course we get a little something from Lord Julius. But Eddy—you know what Eddy is! No sooner does he pick himself up from Epsom than Ascot gives him a fair knockout, and if he lives through the Sandown Eclipse there’s Goodwood waitin’ for him with a facer. I can’t understand it; other men seem to win sometimes—you’d think the unluckiest duffer would get a look-in once in a while—but no, he just gets hammered one meeting after another. And I’m tired of it, Frank! If I could only go back to work! But if I get an engagement, then Eddy will go playin’ the goat—he’s jealous of everybody about the place from the bandmaster down to the carpenter’s boy—and that makes me unpopular—and there we are, don’t you see! I’m worn out with it. But if I could have eight hundred a year, or even six hundred or five at a pinch—God knows, my wants are simple enough!—and have it paid to me personally, do you see—why, then, life would be worth livin’. Now, what do you say?”
Frances looked moodily down at her distinguished sister, her lips twisted in stormy amusement. “Why not say a thousand and be done with it?” she demanded between set teeth, after an ominous pause. “One would be as intelligent as the other. And oughtn’t I to set your Eddy up with a racing stud while I’m about it? It’s true that I have about twenty pounds a year for my own personal use, and Tom has a standing grievance that I don’t give even that to him—but don’t let that interfere with your plans. Whatever you feel that you would like, just give it a name. Couldn’t I lease one of the new Kaffir mansions in Park Lane for you? Or would you prefer something in Grosvenor Square?”
Cora gazed up with such intentness at her unnatural sister that a bright little tear came to shine at the corner of each eye. She put up her veil then, and breathed a cautious sigh. “I didn’t expect this of you, dear,” she said, submissively. “Of course it’s the old story—La Cigale, and ‘go-to-the ant-thou-sluggard’ and all that. I don’t see myself why a typewriting machine should make one so fearfully stony-hearted; you get callouses on your fingers, I know, but you needn’t get ’em on your sisterly affections, one would think. But however”—she wiped her eyes, drew down her veil and allowed a truculent note to sound in her voice—“however, if you won’t play, why then neither will I. I’ve been at pains to put this youngster in your way, but it won’t be much trouble to shunt him out again. You mustn’t think you can walk on me indefinitely, Frank. I’m the best-natured woman in the world, but even I draw the line somewhere.”
“Draw it now then,” said the other, with stern promptitude. “Go away, and take your friend with you and let me get to my work. I don’t know what business either of you had coming here, at all.” As she spoke, she moved to the outer private door, and turned the key in the lock. “You can send for the flowers,” she added, “or I will have them taken over to Charing Cross Hospital—whichever you like.”
Cora rose, her veiled face luminous with a sudden inspiration. “You can’t quarrel with me, dear, no matter how hard you try.” She spoke in low, cooing tones—a triumph of sympathetic voice production. “You’re hard as nails, but I know you’re straight. I will trust my interests absolutely in your hands. I leave it to you to do the fair thing by me.”
“The fair thing?” echoed Frances, in dubious perplexity. She puzzled over the words and their elusive implication. “Your interests?” she repeated—and saw Cora move round her to the unlocked door, and open it—and still sought to comprehend what it was all about. Only when her sister, smiling cordially once more, bent forward without warning and pressed her veiled lips against her chin, and with a gentle “Goodbye, dear!” stepped into the shadows without, did she recall the other features of the situation.
“Here!” she called, with nervous eagerness, yet keeping her voice down, “you’re not to run off like this. Take your man with you.”