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"In the sitting-room, Mr. Coppahwood, ah think."
Cowperwood ascended the stairs, thinking curiously that Wash would soon be out of a job now,
unless Mrs. Cowperwood, out of all the wreck of other things, chose to retain him, which was
not likely. He entered the sitting-room, and there sat his wife by the oblong center-table, sewing
a hook and eye on one of Lillian, second's, petticoats. She looked up, at his step, with the
peculiarly uncertain smile she used these days--indication of her pain, fear, suspicion--and
inquired, "Well, what is new with you, Frank?" Her smile was something like a hat or belt or
ornament which one puts on or off at will.
"Nothing in particular," he replied, in his offhand way, "except that I understand I have lost that
appeal of mine. Steger is coming here in a little while to let me know. I had a note from him, and
I fancy it's about that."
He did not care to say squarely that he had lost. He knew that she was sufficiently distressed as
it was, and he did not care to be too abrupt just now.
"You don't say!" replied Lillian, with surprise and fright in her voice, and getting up.
She had been so used to a world where prisons were scarcely thought of, where things went on
smoothly from day to day without any noticeable intrusion of such distressing things as courts,
jails, and the like, that these last few months had driven her nearly mad. Cowperwood had so
definitely insisted on her keeping in the background--he had told her so very little that she was
all at sea anyhow in regard to the whole procedure. Nearly all that she had had in the way of
intelligence had been from his father and mother and Anna, and from a close and almost secret
scrutiny of the newspapers.
At the time he had gone to the county jail she did not even know anything about it until his father
had come back from the court-room and the jail and had broken the news to her. It had been a
terrific blow to her. Now to have this thing suddenly broken to her in this offhand way, even
though she had been expecting and dreading it hourly, was too much.
She was still a decidedly charming-looking woman as she stood holding her daughter's garment
in her hand, even if she was forty years old to Cowperwood's thirty-five. She was robed in one
of the creations of their late prosperity, a cream-colored gown of rich silk, with dark brown
trimmings--a fetching combination for her. Her eyes were a little hollow, and reddish about the
rims, but otherwise she showed no sign of her keen mental distress. There was considerable
evidence of the former tranquil sweetness that had so fascinated him ten years before.
"Isn't that terrible?" she said, weakly, her hands trembling in a nervous way. "Isn't it dreadful?
Isn't there anything more you can do, truly?" You won't really have to go to prison, will you?" He
objected to her distress and her nervous fears. He preferred a stronger, more self-reliant type of
woman, but still she was his wife, and in his day he had loved her much.
"It looks that way, Lillian," he said, with the first note of real sympathy he had used in a long
while, for he felt sorry for her now. At the same time he was afraid to go any further along that
line, for fear it might give her a false sense as to his present attitude toward her which was one
essentially of indifference. But she was not so dull but what she could see that the consideration
in his voice had been brought about by his defeat, which meant hers also. She choked a
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