"Mrs. Conway," she repeated, picking up a newspaper and writing on the margin.
"Mrs. Keough, Mrs. Schweppe, Mrs. Cochrane."
Georgia wrote on the newspaper after each name. "And mama," she added. She footed the total. "Those five women aggregate more than two hundred and fifty years," she bitterly exclaimed. "They're an advisory board, because they can only advise about life. They're past living it. And I—am just thirty. No, Father, I won't go on the board—yet."
She was curiously resentful, as if she had received an insult. She walked quickly to the window and threw it open, looking out and turning her back to the priest until she might collect herself and control her strange agitation.
"Very well," he answered gently, "I only hoped that it might please your mother." He took his hat in his hand and stood up. "Before I go," he said, "I think I should tell you that I have had news from your husband." He took a letter from his pocket and held it out toward her.
"No—I won't read it, thank you."
"He's on a farm in Iowa," the priest said, "I managed it. He's been doing hard work—and is much better."
"Yes, he may raise himself up a little, and then just when people are beginning to hope for the hundredth time, he'll relapse and—wallow."
"Yes, I am afraid sometimes he is hopeless." The despondency was plain in his voice.
"He's quite hopeless. He's incurable. It's a disease; but it works slowly on him, like leprosy."