CHAPTER XXII
KEEPING an appointment, Kathleen Boyce dropped in next day. Her tall indolent figure, prematurely wrapped in loosely hanging furs, stood in the doorway surprisedly.
“Not dressed yet, Rose? Have you forgotten that we’re going to that showing at Boyle’s?”
In the afternoon light Mrs. Hubbell’s face looked sallow and mean little lines dragged down the corners of her mouth.
“Boyle’s? I don’t want to go to Boyle’s.”
“Sick or bored?”
“Both—and done with this place. I’m off for New York next week. Look in there. I’m packing. I’ll do better in New York than I could at Boyle’s, I guess. Look here, Kathleen, why don’t you come with me?”
“Can’t afford a winter in New York. My modest alimony isn’t able to hold a candle to your fortune. Sometimes a living husband isn’t as generous as a dead one.”
Rose smiled viciously.
“Jack wasn’t as rich as lots of people think. I’d my own income.”