Rinderfeld, spared her as much as possible from the ordeal of explanations; according to the arrangement, Doctor Grantham was to call at half-past ten and detail to her mother the prepared story of last night; and, promptly, the doctor's car appeared and he entered the house.
Marjorie crept to her door, opened it and listened quiveringly to the voices below; perhaps "something"—that euphony for death—had happened since early in the morning. No; the doctor had come only to repeat the narrative of his friend's long-concealed ailment, the sudden discovery last evening that an immediate operation was necessary and the rest as Rinderfeld had composed it. Marjorie closed her door and went again to her window where she stood staring blankly out until she heard her mother on the stairs; she opened Marjorie's door and entered, pale and with her large blue eyes looking darker than naturally, as they did when she was anxious; but otherwise she was controlled and Marjorie was swept with miserable pride in her. For she knew that her mother had heard Doctor Grantham's hard story and without suspicion had accepted it.
"My poor child," she said with compassion and with her cold hands she clasped Marjorie's equally cold ones. "You had that to bear all alone last night. But you knew where I was, Marjorie; you knew I was with Mrs. Cleve."
"Yes, mother," Marjorie admitted and she could not help breaking down a little. She was not afraid of her mother now; she was overswept with the degradation of what her father had done, of his falseness and deception; and yet she also was deceiving her mother.
"I realize you acted only to spare me, child; that is
