Nothing would be done. And no one would come to see them except some crazy woman who would talk magnetism and spirit control. And next year and next year and next year. . . .
"If you can't listen I might as well go to bed. Considering all I do for you. . . ."
Miss Fosdick never heard the end of the sentence, for Mrs. Weatherby, in one of her sudden tempers, had rushed out of the door, followed by the yapping Pomeranians. On her way she knocked over her chair and the sound of it striking the stone floor echoed through the empty villa long after she had gone. Miss Fosdick's expression did not change. There was a buzzing in her head. The room seemed suddenly to swell to enormous proportions and then contract again. She lifted the tired lettuce to her mouth and ate mechanically. Everything was so still and breathless and hot. "I shall go mad," she thought. "I shall go mad."
It was the return of Margharita that brought her out of the sudden trance. She decided that she was glad of the quarrel, for it gave her a chance to be alone for a little time. If she stayed away long enough Aunt Henrietta would send for her and then when she came, Aunt Henrietta would sulk and refuse to talk. Anything was better than talking, feeding, feeding, feeding, the vanity of Aunt Henrietta. What the world failed to give her Miss Fosdick was forced to supply, and at the moment the world of Brinoë was simply ignoring Mrs. Weatherby.
Then suddenly Miss Fosdick thought with a pang, "I have been rude and ungrateful. We are two
