the fight for life had drawn them together, it would not have been hard.
But with the beginning of convalescence, when Rose, with an easy visit
and a few facile caresses, could outweigh in one hour, all of Portia's
unremitting tireless service during the other twenty-three, and carry
off as a prize the whole of her mother's gratitude and affection, the
old envy and irritation had come back threefold.

Rose greeted her with a "Hello, Angel! Why didn't you come right up?
Isn't it disgraceful to be lying around in bed like this in the middle
of the morning?"

"I don't know," said Portia. "Might as well stay in bed, if you've
nothing to do when you get up." She meant it to sound good-humored, but
was afraid it didn't. "Anyhow," she added after a straight look into
Rose's face, "you look, this morning, as if bed was just where you ought
to be. What's the matter with you, child?"

"Nothing," said Rose, "--nothing that you'd call anything at any rate."

Portia smiled ironically. "I'm still the same old dragon, then," she
said. And then, with a gesture of impatience, turned away. She hadn't
meant to begin like that. Why couldn't she keep her tongue in control!

"I only meant," said Rose very simply, "that you'd say it was nothing,
if it was the matter with you. I've seen you, so many times, get up
looking perfectly sick and, without any breakfast but a cup of black
coffee, put on your old mackintosh and rubbers and start off for the
shop, saying you were all right and not to bother, that I knew that was
what you'd say now, if you felt the way I do."