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 sniveling 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 suspicion. Slipping down in front of an automobile, making a mistake about sleeping-powders. It might be done. But, oh, she didn’t want to die that way. Not that she was much on religion, but she didn’t want to take any such chances with immortality. There must be some other way.

It was sometime during the course of the second night, when she was wearied and exhausted almost to the breaking point, that the “some other way” flashed across Stella’s mental field of vision. The first consciousness of it made her feel queer and hollow inside for a moment. It was like having a messenger suddenly run onto the scene with your pardon, just when you were settling yourself in the electric chair.