Corole’s hair was disarranged a little from its usual flat gold waves, and her eyes had great dark circles under them, and her face in the ghostly gray light was sallow and drawn. But she was gowned in a coppery-green silk thing that clung smoothly to her rather luxuriant curves. A heavily embroidered Chinese scarf, whose usual place, I recalled, was on the long table near her, had been flung over her feet and somehow, I presume because she glanced obliquely at it and reached surreptitiously to rearrange it, I got the impression that she had hastily flung it over her feet as I came into the room.
“Yes,” I replied gravely. “I am very sorry that this thing has happened.”
“Oh, of course, it is terrible,” she agreed quickly. “The whole thing is simply unspeakable.”
There was little for us to say; I offered the usual remarks; Corole told me that Dr. Letheny’s body would be sent to New Orleans for burial with others of the family and thanked me perfunctorily for my offers of assistance.
“Jim Gainsay is staying on for a few days,” she said. “Nice of him but I really don’t see what he can do.” There was a faint ring of resentment in her voice that surprised me. Corole was not a woman to resent masculine company.
“I suppose Huldah is making you comfortable?” I said for lack of something better.
“Oh, yes,” replied Corole discontentedly. “She does as well as usual. She was awfully upset about all this. Jumps every time I speak to her.”
“Would you like someone to come and stay with you for a few days?”
“No,” said Corole sharply. “No. Why should I?”
“Oh—in case of anything—er—happening. I should think you would be a little nervous.” My explanation sounded somewhat lame and I recalled that Corole actually had no idea of the things we had gone through last night. . . . A swift recollection of that shallow, locked closet in Room 18 came to me and I arose suddenly, moved to another chair, and tried to think of something else.