Her pallor, her
immobility, without grief now, or joy, awoke his sympathy.
"Do you want me to have it?" she asked listlessly.
"I'm indifferent. That is, I'm neutral. If you have it I'll probably be
glad. If you don't--well, that's all right too."
"I wish you'd make up your mind one way or the other!"
"Suppose you make up _your_ mind."
She looked at him contemptuously, scorning to answer.
"You'd think you'd been singled out of all the women in the world for
this crowning indignity."
"What if I do!" she cried angrily. "It isn't an indignity for them. It's
their one excuse for living. It's the one thing they're good for. It
_is_ an indignity for _me._
"See here, Gloria, I'm with you whatever you do, but for God's sake be a
sport about it."
"Oh, don't _fuss_ at me!" she wailed.
They exchanged a mute look of no particular significance but of much
stress. Then Anthony took a book from the shelf and dropped into
a chair.
Half an hour later her voice came out of the intense stillness that
pervaded the room and hung like incense on the air.
"I'll drive over and see Constance Merriam to-morrow."
"All right. And I'll go to Tarrytown and see Grampa.
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