to the specialist. I asked for twenty-four hours to think it over,
and by that time I'd made up my mind. I got a very good price from her,
really. She bought the whole thing; lease, stock and good-will."

It wasn't more than a very subconscious impression in the back of Rose's
mind, that Portia must be pretty callous and cold to have been able on
the very day of the doctor's sentence to look as far ahead as that, and
to drive a good bargain on the next--awfully efficient, anyway. "I wish
I was more like you," she said.

But she didn't want to be questioned as to just what she meant by it
and, aware that Portia had just shot a queer searching look at her, she
changed the subject, or thought she did.

"Anyway, I'm glad it worked out so well for you," she went on; "selling
the shop so easily, and all. And I believe it'll do you as much good as
mother. Getting a rest.... You do need it. You're worked right down to
the bones. And out there where it's warm and bright all the time, and
you don't have to get up in the dark any more winter mornings and wade
off through the slush to the street-car.... And a nice little bungalow
to live in--just you and mother.... I--I sort of wish I was going too."

Portia laughed--a ragged, unnatural sounding laugh that brought a look
of puzzled inquiry from Rose.

"Why, nothing," Portia explained. "It was just the notion of your
leaving Rodney and all you've got here--all the wonderful things you
have to do--for what we'll have out there. The idea of your envying me
is something worth a small laugh, don't you think?"

Rose's head drooped lower. She buried her face in her hands. "I do envy
you," she said. There was a dull muffled passion in her voice. "Why
shouldn't I envy you? You're so cold and certain all the time. You make
up your mind what you'll do, and you do it. I try to do things and just
make myself ridiculous. Oh, I know I've got a motor and a lot of French
dresses, and a maid, and I don't have to get up in the morning, because,
as you say, I have nothing else to do--and I suppose that might make
some people happy."

"You've got a husband," said Portia in a thin brittle voice. "That might
count for something, I should think."

"Yes, and what good am I to him?" Rose demanded. "He can't talk to
me--not about his work or anything like that. And I can't help him any
way. I'm something nice for him to make love to, when he feels like
doing it, and I'm a nuisance when I make scenes