were due to arrive in a few hours to perform an operation upon Lollie—years ago, a slight operation, only tonsils—but they were going to make her limp and lifeless, and cut her with a knife.
"Ought I again cut her with a knife?"
It would hurt her, of course—poor kid—at first. Her face would get all white with horror and dismay. "But she'd be rid of me—free, and after a while she'd forget it. She's young, she'd get over it. Or would it also be a story—a tale, to whisper about behind Laurel's back. 'Her mother committed suicide!' 'You don't mean it!' 'And her father's father, too, so I've heard.' 'Really.' 'Runs in the blood on both sides.' 'How shocking!'" Years ago Stella had read in a magazine somewhere that suicidal tendencies were inherited. She recalled it now. Heavens! What if Laurel should grow up and read that, too? Good Lord, it might make her afraid for herself if it was on both sides! She must be saved that horror. A wave of relief swept over Stella.
"I must think of some other way." She went back to the window-seat again. "Oh, how scared I was! What a snivelling coward I am!"
All the next day she submitted compromise after compromise to Laurel. She would keep a servant if only Laurel would go to New York. She would keep two servants, a companion; two companions, return to an apartment hotel, if only—if only—But Laurel simply shrugged her shoulders.
Again and again that day Stella was forced to face the unwelcome consideration of discovering some method of whiffing out that might not arouse
