Grace groaned mentally. “I wonder if she would take a little milk,” she said audibly.
“You can try. Will I bring you some?”
There was a secret triumph in the tone, as though she suspected the attempt would prove futile. And she was right. Nettie would have nothing but water. Of that she drank incessantly.
“I am parched,” she said in answer to Grace’s remonstrances. “My lips are so dry they bleed;” and as she removed her handkerchief from them, Grace saw it was stained with crimson spots.
What would Grace not have given for Mrs. Hartley’s counsel? Good women, and kind and true, lived at Kingslough, but somehow she felt at that juncture Mrs. Hartley’s hard worldly sense would prove more useful than all the well-meant sympathy amiable but incompetent people could offer.
Besides, Nettie herself would have none of Kingslough, either in the way of pity or help.
All the morning Maryville was besieged with callers, notes, cards, and inquiries.
“They can come now,” said Nettie bitterly, as she watched car and carriage and messenger depart unsatisfied. “They think I can go back and take the old up where I left off that morning. They do not know; how should they?”
Dinner-time arrived. With a bang, Susan set down on one side of the table at the other side of which Grace sat writing, a dish of potatoes piled high and another of herrings floating in a fresh sea of grease.
“Maybe it’s not good enough for you,” said the woman, with a sneer, “but it’s all there is in the house.”