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Her hair was done--you could hardly say
arranged--with a severity that was fairly hostile. Her clothes were
bruskly cut and bruskly worn, their very smartness seeming an impatient
concession to necessity. Her smile, if not ill-natured--it wasn't
that--was distinctly ironic. A very competent, good-looking young woman,
you'd have said, if you'd seen her with her shoulder-blades flattened
down and her chest up. Seeing her to-day, drooping a little over the
cold lunch, you'd have left out the adjective young.
"So Rose didn't come down this morning at all," Portia observed, when
she had done her duty by the egg. "You took her breakfast up to her, I
suppose."
Mrs. Stanton flushed a little. "She didn't want me to; but I thought
she'd better keep quiet."
"Nothing particular the matter with her, is there?" asked Portia.
There was enough real concern in her voice to save the question from
sounding satirical, but her mother's manner was still a little
apologetic when she answered it.
"No, I think not," she said.


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