“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.”

“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.”  Her voice got a little harder and cooler.  “Mother’ll never be well, Rose.  She’s got an incurable disease.  There’s a long name for it that I can’t remember.  What it means is that her heart is getting flabby—­degenerating, he called it.  He says we can’t do anything except to retard the progress of the disease.  It may go fast, or it may go slowly.  That attack she had was just a symptom, he said.  She’ll have others.  And by and by, of course, a fatal one.”

Still she didn’t look around from the window.  She knew Rose was crying.  She had heard the gasp and choke that followed her first announcement of the news, and since then, irregularly, a muffled sound of sobbing.  She wanted to go over and comfort the young stricken thing there on the bed, but she couldn’t.  She could feel nothing but a dull irresistible anger that Rose should have the easy relief of tears, which had been denied her.  Because Portia couldn’t cry.