Cornelia Woodyard's expression was not pleasant when she was deliberating or in perplexity. Her broad brow wrinkled, and her mouth drew down at the corners, adding a number of years to her face. She did not allow this condition of perplexity to appear in public, reserving her "heavy thinking," as Tom Cairy called these moments, for the early morning hours of privacy. This languid spring day while Conny turned over her mail that lay strewn in disorder on her bed, she apparently had one of her worst fits of dubitation. She poked about in the mass of letters, bills, and newspapers until she found the sheet she was looking for,—it was in her husband's handwriting,—reread it, the scowl deepening, pushed it back thoughtfully into its envelope, and rang for the maid that looked after her personally as well as performed other offices in the well-organized household. When Conny emerged at the end of the hour in street costume, the frown had disappeared, but her fair face wore a preoccupied air.
"Hello, Tom!" she said wanly to Cairy, who was dawdling over the paper in the library. "How is it out?"
"Warm,—a perfect day!" Cairy replied, smiling at her and jumping to his feet.
"Is the cab there?"
"Yes,—shall we start?"
"I can't go to-day, Tom,—something has turned up."
"Something has turned up?" he queried. He was an expert in Conny's moods, but he had seen little of this mood lately.
"Business," Conny explained shortly. "Leave the cab, please. I may want it…. No," she added as Cairy came towards her with a question on his lips. "I can't bother to explain,—but it's important. We must give up our day."
She turned to her desk, and then remarked as if she felt Cairy's disappointment: "You can come in after dinner if you like, Tom! We can have the evening, perhaps."
He looked at her questioningly, as if he would insist on an explanation. But Conny was not one of whom even a lover would demand explanations when she was in this mood.