“He’s sick, I believe. I’m his sister. May I come in?”
Jennie, had she had time to collect her thoughts, would have tried to make some excuse, but Louise, with the audacity of her birth and station, swept past before Jennie could say a word. Once inside Louise looked about her inquiringly. She found herself in the sitting-room, which gave into the bedroom where Lester was lying. Vesta happened to be playing in one corner of the room, and stood up to eye the new-comer. The open bedroom showed Lester quite plainly lying in bed, a window to the left of him, his eyes closed.
“Oh, there you are, old fellow!” exclaimed Louise. “What’s ailing you?” she hurried on.
Lester, who at the sound of her voice had opened his eyes, realized in an instant how things were. He pulled himself up on one elbow, but words failed him.
“Why, hello, Louise,” he finally forced himself to say. “Where did you come from?”
“St. Paul. I came back sooner than I thought,” she answered lamely, a sense of something wrong irritating her. “I had a hard time finding you, too. Who’s your—” she was about to say “pretty housekeeper,” but turned to find Jennie dazedly gathering up certain articles in the adjoining room and looking dreadfully distraught.
Lester cleared his throat hopelessly.
His sister swept the place with an observing eye. It took in the home atmosphere, which was both pleasing and suggestive. There was a dress of Jennie’s lying across a chair, in a familiar way, which caused Miss Kane to draw herself up warily. She looked at her brother, who had a rather curious expression in his eyes—he seemed slightly nonplussed, but cool and defiant.
“You shouldn’t have come out here,” said Lester finally, before Louise could give vent to the rising question in her mind.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed, angered at the brazen confession. “You’re my brother, aren’t you? Why should you have any place that I couldn’t come. Well, I like that—and from you to me.”