"You'll excuse me if I go on getting dinner? We only have two meals a day when we don't exercise. This wind--isn't it dreadful? I haven't been out of the house for a week."

She placed two rolls in the warming oven and broke three eggs into a bowl.

"Abram and I are so fond of omelette," she said, as the egg-beater whirred. "Tell me," she beamed brightly upon Mrs. Toomey, "what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Priscilla--Prissy--" Mrs. Toomey caught her breath--"I've been miserable--and that's the truth!"

"Why, my dear!" The egg-beater stopped. "Aren't you well? No wonder--I'm as nervous as a witch myself." The egg-beater whirred again encouragingly. "You must use your will power--you mustn't allow yourself to be affected by these external things."

"It's not the wind." Mrs. Toomey's eyes were swimming now. "I'm worried half to death."

Mrs. Pantin had not lived twelve years with Abram in vain. A look of suspicion crossed her face, and there was a little less solicitude in her voice as she inquired:

"Is it anything in particular? Bad news from home?"

"It's money!" Mrs. Toomey blurted out. "We're dreadfully hard up. I came to see if we could get a loan."

The egg-beater went on, but the milk of human kindness which, presumably, flowed in Mrs. Pantin's breast stopped--congealed--froze up tight. Her blue eyes, whose vividness was accentuated as usual by the robin's egg blue dress she wore, had the warm genial glow radiating from a polar berg. It was, however, only a moment before she recovered herself and was able to say with sweet earnestness:

"I haven't anything to do with that, my dear. You'll have to see Mr.

Pantin."

Mrs. Toomey clasped her fingers tightly together and stammered:

"If--if you would speak to him first--I--I thought perhaps--"

Mrs. Pantin's set society smile was on her small mouth, but the finality of the laws of the Medes and the Persians was in her tone as she replied:

"I never think of interfering with my husband's business or making suggestions. As fond as I am of you, Delia, you'll have to ask him yourself."

Mrs. Toomey had the feeling that they never would be quite on the same footing again. She knew it from the way in which Mrs. Pantin's eyes travelled from the unbecoming brown veil on her head to her warm but antiquated coat, stopping at her shabby shoes which, instinctively, she drew beneath the hem of her skirt.

To be shabby from carelessness was one thing--to be so from necessity was another, clearly was in Mrs. Pantin's mind. She had known, of course, of the collapse of their cattle-raising enterprise, but she had not dreamed they were in such a bad way as this. She hoped she was not the sort of person who would let it make any difference in her warm friendship for Delia Toomey; nevertheless, Mrs. Toomey detected the subtle note of patronage in her voice when she said:

"Abram is alone in the living room--you might speak to him."

"I think I will." Mrs. Toomey endeavored to repair the mistake she felt she had made by speaking in a tone which implied that a loan was of no great moment after all, but she walked out with the feeling that she used to have in the presence of the more opulent members of her father's congregation when the flour barrel was low.

Mrs. Toomey was not too agitated to note how immaculate and dainty the dining room table looked with its fine linen and cut gla.s.s. There were six dices of apple with a nut on top on the handsome salad plates, and the crystal dessert dishes each held three prunes swimming in their rich juice.

The living-room, too, reflected Mrs. Pantin's taste. A framed motto extolling the virtues of friendship hung over the mantel and the "Blind Girl of Pompeii" groped her way down the staircase on the neutral-tinted wall. A bookcase filled with sets of the world's best literature occupied a corner of the room, while ooze leather copies of Henry Van d.y.k.e gave an unmistakable look of culture to the mission table in the center of the room. A handsome leather davenport with a neat row of sofa pillows along the back, which were of Mrs. Pantin's own handiwork, suggested luxurious ease. But the chief attraction of the room was the brick fireplace with its spotless tiled hearth. One of Mr. Pantin's diversions was sitting before the glowing coals, whisk and shovel in hand, waiting for an ash to drop.

Seeing Mrs. Toomey, Mr. Pantin again hastily thrust his toes into his slippers--partly because he was cognizant of the fact that no real gentleman will receive a lady in his stocking feet, and partly to conceal the neat but large darn on the toe of one sock. He was courteous amiability itself, and Mrs. Toomey's hopes shot up.

"I came to have a little talk."

"Yes?"

Mr. Pantin's smile deceived her and she plunged on with confidence:

"I--we would like to arrange for a loan, Mr. Pantin."

"To what amount, Mrs. Toomey?"

Mrs. Toomey considered.

"As much as you could conveniently spare."

The smile which Mr. Pantin endeavored to conceal was genuine.

"For what length of time?"

Mrs. Toomey had not thought of that.

"I could not say exactly--not off-hand like this--but I presume only until my husband gets into something."

"Has he--er--anything definite in view?"

"I wouldn't say definite, not definite, but he has several irons in the fire and we expect to hear soon."

"I see." Mr. Pantin's manner was urbane but, observing him closely, Mrs.

Toomey noted that his eyes suddenly presented the curious illusion of two slate-gray pools covered with skim ice. It was not an encouraging sign and her heart sank in spite of the superlative suavity of the tone in which he inquired:

"What security would you be able to give, Mrs. Toomey?"

Security? Between friends? She had not expected this.

"I--I'm afraid I--we haven't any, Mr. Pantin. You know we lost everything when we lost the ranch. But you're perfectly safe--you needn't have a moment's anxiety about that."

Immediately it seemed as though invisible hands shot out to push her away, yet Mr. Pantin's tone was bland as he replied:

"I should be delighted to be able to accommodate you, but just at the present time--"

"You can't? Oh, I wish you would reconsider--as a matter of friendship.

We need it--desperately, Mr. Pantin!" Her voice shook.

Again she had the sensation of invisible hands fighting her off.

"I regret very much--"

The hopelessness of any further plea swept over her. She arose with a gesture of despair, and Mr. Pantin, smiling, suave, urbane, bowed her out and closed the door. He watched her go down the walk and through the gate, noting her momentary hesitation and wondering where she might be going in such a wind. When she started in the opposite direction from home and walked rapidly down the road that led out of town it flashed through his mind that she might be bent on suicide--she had looked desperate, no mistake, but, since there was no water in which to drown herself, and no tree from which to hang herself, and the country was so flat that there was nothing high enough for her to jump off of and break her neck, he concluded there was no real cause for uneasiness.

It was Mr. Pantin's proud boast that he never yet had "held the sack,"

and now he thought complacently as he turned from the window, grabbed the shovel and whisk and leaped for an ash that had dropped, that this was an instance where he had again shown excellent judgment in not allowing his warm heart and impulses to control his head.

CHAPTER VII