“My boat doesn’t sail till next week.”
“Your boat?”
“I’m to sail on the Tuscania.”
“Oh,” I said flatly, and there being nothing further I took my way on around the hill.
The Letheny cottage looked cold and grim as I approached it. Puddles stood along the turf path; the flowers were beaten down by the wind and leaves had blown all over the porch. Huldah answered the bell, her eyes red and swollen and the cap that Corole had forced her to adopt hanging dejectedly over one ear.
“Miss Keate!” she cried. “And so wet!” She took my slicker, holding it so it could not drip on the rug. “Oh, Miss Keate! Such a t’ing! Such a t’ing!” It is only when Huldah is tremendously moved that she forgets her digraphs.
“Yes, it is dreadful, Huldah,” I said. “How is Miss Corole?”
Huldah shrugged her heavy shoulders oddly.
“There she is, in the study.” She motioned toward the door without answering my question and then followed me, her china-blue eyes curious and round like a rabbit’s between their pink rims.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Corole with not very flattering indifference. “For Heaven’s sake, Huldah, take that wet coat to the kitchen. And close the door behind you,” she added viciously. “I suppose you came to offer sympathy,” she went on, moving a pillow to a more comfortable position under her arm. She was half-lying, half-sitting on the big davenport. A fire had been built in the fireplace but had burned down to a few sullen ashes with a red gleam here and there. There was no light in the room beyond the gray, rainy dusk from the windows.