"No. It is true. I bought it for her," roared Langstroth, triumphant. "Think of that, Margaret—eight thousand and—"
"For me—mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "Don't speak to me, Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go." No, she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. "May I not go, Friend Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go."
"Certainly. The sleigh is at the door."
Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner. She made short answers.
"The puss has her claws out," murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply to her congratulations: "I think it is a misfortune—a—a—what will my mother say? I must go." She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put on her over-wrap.
"Damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and to whom she would not speak.
The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.