The sorrow you will bring on yourself
and all of us, and on poor Jim, will be such a hateful sorrow, my
dear, such an unworthy grief!"
Kedzie choked, and mumbled, "I don't think I know what you mean."
Mrs. Dyckman petted her hand: "I don't think you do. I hope not.
But take an old woman's word for it, be--be Caesar's wife?"
"Caesar's wife?" Kedzie puzzled. "What did she do?"
"It was what she didn't do. Well, I haven't the strength--or the
right, perhaps--to tell you any more. Yes, I will. I must say this
much. You are the subject of very widespread criticism, and Jim
is being pitied."
"Me criticized? Jim pitied? Why? For what?"
"For the things you do, my dear, the places you go, and the hours
you keep--and the friends you keep."
"That's disgusting!" Kedzie snarled. "The long-tongued gossips!
They ought to be ashamed of themselves."
Mrs. Dyckman's fever began to mount. She dropped Kedzie's hand
and tugged at the coverlet.
"You'd better go, my dear. I apologize. It's useless! When did age
ever gain anything by warning youth? I'm an old fool, and you're
a young one. And nothing will stop your ambition to run through
life to the end of it and get all you can out of it."
Kedzie felt dismissed and rose in bewildered anger. Mrs. Dyckman
heaved herself to one elbow and pointed her finger at Kedzie.
"But keep away from Jake Vanderveer! and Pet Bettany! or--or--Send
my nurse, please."
She fell back gasping and Kedzie flew, in a fear that the old lady
would die of a stroke and Kedzie be blamed for it forever.
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