"Too late! Too late!"
There was a bleak, attic-like room at the Caravansary, airy enough, and
glimpsing the lake from its eastern window, which Kate took temporarily
for her abiding-place. She had her things moved over there and camped
amid the chaos till Honora should be gone.
The day came when the two women, with the little girls, stood on the
porch of the house which had proved so ineffective a home. Kate
turned the key.
"I hope never to come back to Chicago, Kate," Honora said, lifting her
ravaged face toward the staring blankness of the windows. "I'm not
brave enough."
"Not foolish enough, you mean," corrected Kate. "Hold tight to the
girlies, Honora, and you'll come out all right."
Honora refrained from answering. Her woe was epic, and she let her
sunken eyes and haggard countenance speak for her.
Kate saw David Fulham's deserted family off on the train. Mrs. Hays, the
children's nurse, accompanied them. Honora moved with a slow hauteur in
her black gown, looking like a disenthroned queen, and as she walked
down the train aisle Kate thought of Marie Antoinette. There were plenty
of friends, as both women knew, who would have been glad to give any
encouragement their presence could have contributed, but it was
generally understood that the truth of the situation was not to be
recognized.
When Kate got back on the platform, Honora became just Honora again,
thinking of and planning for others. She thrust her head from
the window.
"Oh, Kate," she said, "I do hope you'll get well settled somewhere and
feel at home. Don't stay in that attic, dear. It would make me feel as
if I had put you into it."
"Trust me!" Kate reassured her. She waved her hand with specious gayety.
"Give my love to Mr. Wander," she laughed.