The white cap and apron vanished into the shadows. Betty, lying back in her chair, looked vacantly at the paling sky, with the blood-red cloak deepening the darkness of her hair. The cat Mignon sprang into her lap. Dreamily, and as by habit, she began to stroke the cat, while listening to the murmur of the two voices in the hall below.
Brisk footsteps ascended the stairs, with the swish of silk, and the soft sighing of a woman’s breath.
“Here I am, dear, at last.”
“Shut the door, Madge.”
“I missed my train. You must have wondered what had happened.”
“I have ceased to wonder at anything in life.”
Madge Ellison looked curiously at Betty lying back in her chair, and crossed the room slowly, unbuttoning her gloves.
“You sound rather down, dear. What’s that? Have you heard—?”
Betty Steel’s hand closed spasmodically upon the crumpled letter that she held. Her face was hard and reflective in its outlines. And yet in the eyes there was a pathos of unrest, the unrest of a woman whose gods have left her utterly alone.
“I have heard from Parker.”