"I'm sorry," said Portia. "I might have known that was what you meant. I
wonder if you ever want to say ugly things and don't, or if it's just
that it never occurs to you to try to hurt anybody. I didn't mean to say
that either. I've had a rather worrying sort of week."

"What is it?" said Rose. "Tell me about it. Can I help?"

"No," said Portia. "I've thought it over and it isn't your job." She got
up and went to the window where Rose couldn't see her face, and stood
looking out. "It's about mother," she concluded.

Rose sat up with a jerk. "About mother!" she echoed. "Has she been ill
again this week? And you haven't let me know! It's a shame I haven't
been around, but I've been busy"--her smile reflected some of the irony
of Portia's--"and rather miserable. Of course I was going this
afternoon."

"Yes," said Portia, "I fancied you'd come this afternoon. That's why I
wanted to see you alone first."

"Alone!" Rose leaned sharply forward. "Oh, don't stand there where I
can't see you! Tell me what it is."

"I'm going to," said Portia. "You see, I wasn't satisfied with old
Murray. That soothing bedside manner of his, and his way of encouraging
you as if you were a child going to have a tooth pulled, drove me nearly
wild. I thought it was possible, either that he didn't understand
mother's case, or else that he wouldn't tell me what he suspected. So
a week ago to-day, I got her to go with me to a specialist. He made a
very thorough examination, and the next day I went around to see him."