That was a long night for Cora Madison, and the morning found her
yellow. She made a poor breakfast, and returned from the table to
her own room, but after a time descended restlessly and wandered
from one room to another, staring out of the windows. Laura had
gone out; Mrs. Madison was with her husband, whom she seldom left;
Hedrick had departed ostensibly for school; and the house was as
still as a farm in winter--an intolerable condition of things for
an effervescent young woman whose diet was excitement. Cora,
drumming with her fingers upon a window in the owl-haunted cell,
made noises with her throat, her breath and her lips not
unsuggestive of a sputtering fuse. She was heavily charged.
"Now what in thunder do _you_ want?" she inquired of an elderly
man who turned in from the sidewalk and with serious steps
approached the house.
Pryor, having rung, found himself confronted with the lady he had
come to seek. Ensued the moment of strangers meeting: invisible
antennae extended and touched;--at the contact, Cora's drew in,
and she looked upon him without graciousness.
"I just called," he said placatively, smiling as if some humour
lurked in his intention, "to ask how your father is. I heard
downtown he wasn't getting along quite so well."
"He's better this morning, thanks," said Cora, preparing to close
the door.
"I thought I'd just stop and ask about him. I heard he'd had
another bad spell--kind of a second stroke."
"That was night before last. The doctor thinks he's improved very
much since then."
The door was closing; he coughed hastily, and detained it by
speaking again. "I've called several times to inquire about him,
but I believe it's the first time I've had the pleasure of
speaking to you, Miss Madison. I'm Mr. Pryor." She appeared to
find no comment necessary, and he continued: "Your father did a
little business for me, several years ago, and when I was here on
my vacation, this summer, I was mighty sorry to hear of his
sickness. I've had a nice bit of luck lately and got a second
furlough, so I came out to spend a couple of weeks and
Thanksgiving with my married daughter."
Cora supposed that it must be very pleasant.
"Yes," he returned. "But I was mighty sorry to hear your father
wasn't much better than when I left. The truth is, I wanted to
have a talk with him, and I've been reproaching myself a good deal
that I didn't go ahead with it last summer, when he was well, only
I thought then it mightn't be necessary--might be disturbing
things without much reason."
"I'm afraid you can't have a talk with him now," she said. "The
doctor says----"
"I know, I know," said Pryor, "of course. I wonder"--he hesitated,
smiling faintly--"I wonder if I could have it with you instead."
"Me?"
"Oh, it isn't business," he laughed, observing her expression.
"That is, not exactly." His manner became very serious. "It's
about a friend of mine--at least, a man I know pretty well. Miss
Madison, I saw you driving out through the park with him,
yesterday noon, in an automobile. Valentine Corliss."
Cora stared at him. Honesty, friendliness, and grave concern were
disclosed to her scrutiny. There was no mistaking him: he was a
good man. Her mouth opened, and her eyelids flickered as from a
too sudden invasion of light--the look of one perceiving the close
approach of a vital crisis. But there was no surprise in her face.
"Come in," she said.
* * *
. . . . When Corliss arrived, at about eleven o'clock that
morning, Sarah brought him to the library, where he found Cora
waiting for him. He had the air of a man determined to be cheerful
under adverse conditions: he came in briskly, and Cora closed the
door behind him.
"Keep away from me," she said, pushing him back sharply, the next
instant. "I've had enough of that for a while I believe."
He sank into a chair, affecting desolation. "Caresses blighted in
the bud! Cora, one would think us really married."
She walked across the floor to a window, turned there, with her
back to the light, and stood facing him, her arms folded.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, noting this attitude. "Is it the
trial scene from a faded melodrama?" She looked steadily at him
without replying. "What's it all about to-day?" he asked lightly.
"I'll try to give you the proper cues if you'll indicate the
general nature of the scene, Cora mine."
She continued to look at him in silence.
"It's very effective," he observed. "Brings out the figure, too.
Do forgive me if you're serious, dear lady, but never in my life
was I able to take the folded-arms business seriously. It was used
on the stage of all countries so much that I believe most
new-school actors have dropped it. They think it lacks
genuineness."
Cora waited a moment longer, then spoke. "How much chance have I
to get Richard Lindley's money back from you?"