Where was the poor spoiled woman? Who was
putting her to bed and smoothing the pillow? Who was caring for her, and
what was she doing? And Zora strained her eyes Northward through the
night.
At this moment, Mrs. Vanderpool, rising from a gala dinner in the
brilliant drawing-room of her Lake George mansion, was reading the
evening paper which her husband had put into her hands. With startled
eyes she caught the impudent headlines:
VANDERPOOL DROPPED
Senate Refuses to Confirm
Todd Insurgents Muster Enough Votes to Defeat
Confirmation of President's Nominee
Rumored Revenge for Machine's Defeat of Child Labor
Bill Amendment.
The paper trembled in her jewelled hands. She glanced down the column.
"Todd asks: Who is Vanderpool, anyhow? What did he ever do? He is known
only as a selfish millionaire who thinks more of horses than of men."
Carelessly Mrs. Vanderpool threw the paper to the floor and bit her lips
as the angry blood dyed her face.
"They _shall_ confirm him," she whispered, "if I have to mortgage my
immortal soul!" And she rang up long distance on the telephone.
_Thirty-one_
A PARTING OF WAYS
"Was the child born dead?"
"Worse than dead!"
Somehow, somewhere, Mary Cresswell had heard these words; long, long,
ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter agony, where
Earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeating
them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358