Gaiety's glaring brilliancy on Corson Hill had been effectually snuffed by the onslaught of the mob. The mansion hid its lights behind shades and shutters. The men of the orchestra had packed their instruments; the dismayed guests put on their wraps and called for their carriages.
In the place of lilting violins and merry tongues, hammers clattered and saws rasped; the servants were boarding up the broken windows.
Lana Corson, closeted with Mrs. Stanton, found the discord below-stairs peculiarly hateful; it suggested so much, replacing the music.
The rude hand of circumstance had been laid so suddenly on the melody of life!
"And I'll say again—" pursued Mrs. Stanton, breaking a silence that had lain between the two.
"Don't say it again! Don't! Don't!" It was indignant expostulation instead of supplication and the matron instantly exhibited relief.
"Thank goodness, Lana! Your symptoms are fine! You're past the crisis and are on the mend. Get angrier! Stay angry! It's a healthy sign in any woman recovering from such a relapse as has been threatening you since you came back home."
"Will you not drop the topic?" demanded Miss Corson, with as much menace as a maiden could display by tone and demeanor.
"As your nurse in this period of convalescence," insisted the imperturbable lady, "I find your temperature encouraging. The higher the better, in a case like this! But I'd like to register on your chart a hard-and-fast declaration from you that you'll never again expose yourself to infection from the same quarter!"
Lana did not make that declaration; she did not reply to her friend.