“The doctors say if she had some shock to arouse her and draw her thoughts from herself, it might do good, but she cares about nothing. She has not shown any animation to-day, except a faint spark of interest when I told her you were coming.”
“I should so love to see her again. Shall I have that sad pleasure?” he asked, eager to escape from the tête-à-tête interview with Cora, now that he could not tax her at once with her treachery.
“She asked that you should come to her a while,” Cora answered, and then added sobbingly:
“But have you nothing more to say to me, dear Frank, after your long absence? How cold and careless you seem.”
“Billing and cooing will wait. Let us go to your aunt now, Cora,” he answered, rising impatiently.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
“HOW WAS IT THAT LOVE DIED?”
“Let us go to your aunt now, Cora,” repeated Frank impatiently, and though her anger blazed at his coldness, she dared not give rein to it lest she lose him forever.
With a deep, quivering sigh she slipped her arm through his, and led him upstairs to the elegant suite of apartments where her aunt lay dying.
In an exquisite apartment furnished with Oriental magnificence, and sweet with the breath of roses in golden jardinières, while a soft, pearly light was diffused over everything by burning wax lights, Mrs. Dalrymple lay faintly breathing on a low, white couch, wrapped in a rich, white cashmere gown, girdled at the waist by a golden cord, her long, luxuriant tresses floating loose in ebon blackness over the pillow.
When Cora entered the room she led Frank Laurier straight to the couch, saying gently: