"Very well."
"Mm!" Mrs. Milo, plainly gratified, seated herself in the rocker.
"If there's anything I can do for you, Miss Crosby, just ask me." Sue forbore looking at Farvel. She was pale again now, as if with weariness. But she smiled.
Clare did not even look round. Beside her was the canary, his shining black eyes keeping watch on the group of strangers as he darted from cage bottom to perch, or hung, fluttering and apprehensive, against the wires of his home. Clare lifted the cage to her knee and encircled it with an arm.
Balcome caught Sue's eye, made a comical grimace, and patted her on the arm. "As this seems to concern my girl," he explained, "I'm here to stay." He dropped into a chair by the hearth.
Sue went out.
Clare was quite herself by now. She disdained to look at anyone saveFarvel, and the smile she gave him over a shoulder was scornful."Well, shoot!" she challenged. "Let's not take all day."
"Why did you leave without a word?" he asked.
"You mean today?—I told you."
"I mean ten years ago."
"Well, if you want to know, I was tired of being cooped up, so I dug out."
"Cooped up!" exclaimed Farvel, bitterly.
"I guess you know it! And Church! Church! Church! And prayers three times a day! And a small town! Oh, it wasdeadly!"
"No other reason?" asked Farvel, coldly.
She got up, suddenly impatient. "I've told you the truth!" she cried. Then more quietly, seeing how white and drawn he looked, "I'm sorry it worried you." She set the cage on a chair near the double door.
"Worried!" echoed Farvel, bitterly. "Ha! ha!" And with significance,"And who was concerned in your going?"
"That's a nice thing for you to insinuate!" she returned hotly.
"I beg your pardon."
Mrs. Milo fell to rocking nervously. She was enjoying the situation to the full; still—the attitude of Farvel toward this young woman was far from lover-like; while her attitude toward him was marked by hatred badly disguised. Hence an unpleasant and unwelcome thought: What if this "Laura" turned out to be only a relative of the clergyman's!
Farvel's apology moved Clare to laughter. "Oh, that's all right," she assured him, impudently; "I understand. The more religious people are, you know, the more vile are their suspicions"—this with a mocking glance at Mrs. Milo.
The green velour rocker suddenly stood still, and Mrs. Milo fairly glared at the girl. Clare, seeing that she had gained the result she sought, grinned with satisfaction, and resumed her chair.
Farvel had not noticed what passed between the two women. He was watching Wallace. "And you——" he began presently.
The younger man straightened, writhed within his clothes as if he were in pain, and went back to his stooping position once more—all with that swiftness which was so like the effect of an electrical current. "Alan," he whispered.
"—What had you to do with it?" went on the clergyman.
Clare scoffed. "Wallace had nothing to do with it," she declared."What in the dickens is the matter with you?"
"Nothing to do with it?" repeated Farvel. Then, with sudden fury, "Look at him!" He made for Wallace, pushing aside a chair that was not in his way.
"Alan! Stop!" Clare rose, and Mrs. Milo rose, too.
"Come now, Wallace," Farvel said more quietly. "I want the truth."
Mrs. Milo hastened to her son. "Darling, I know you haven't done anything wrong," she said, tenderly. "This 'friend' is trying to shift the blame. Stand up for yourself, my boy. Mother believes in you."
Wallace's chin sank to his breast. At the end of his long arms, his hands knotted and unknotted like the hands of a man in agony.
"My dearest!" comforted his mother. His suffering was evidence of guilt to Balcome and Farvel; to her it was grief, at having been put under unjust suspicion.
He lifted a white face. His eyes were streaming now, his whole body trembling pitifully. "Oh, what'll I do!" he cried. "What'll I do!" He tottered to the chair that Farvel had shoved aside, dropped into it, and covered his face with both hands.
"My boy! My boy!"
"Don't act like a baby!" Clare came to him, and gave him a smart slap on the shoulder. "Cut it out! You haven't done anything."
"Just a moment," interrupted Farvel. He shoved her out of the way as impersonally as he had the chair. Then, "What do you mean by 'What'll do'?" he demanded. And to Clare, pulling at his arm, "Let me alone, I tell you. I'm going to know what's back of this!—Wallace Milo!"
Slowly Wallace got up. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was distorted, like the mouth of a woeful small boy. His throat worked spasmodically, so that the cords stood out above his collar.
Clare defended him fiercely. "What've you got into your head?" she asked Farvel. "You're wrong! You're dead wrong!—Wallace, tell him he's wrong!"
Wallace shook his head. "No," he said, striving to speak evenly; "no, I won't. All these years I've suffered, too. I've wanted to make a clean breast of it a million times—to get it off my conscience. Now, I can. I"—he braced himself to go on—"I was at the Rectory so much, Alan. I think that's how—it started. And—and she was nice to me, and I—I liked her. And we were almost the same age. So——" He could go no further. With a gesture of agonized appeal, he sank to his knees. "Oh, Alan, forgive me!" he sobbed. "Forgive——"
There could be no doubt of his meaning—of the character of his confession. Farvel bent over him, seizing an arm. "Get on your feet!" he shouted. "Get up! Get up, I tell you! I'm going to knock you down!"
"Oh, help! Help!" wept Mrs. Milo, appealing to Balcome, who came forward promptly.
"Farvel!" he admonished. He got between the two men.
Clare was dragging at Farvel. "Blame me!" she cried. "I was older!Blame me!"
Farvel pushed her aside. "Don't try to shield him!" he answered."He's a dog! A dog!"
A loud voice sounded from the hall. It was Tottie, storming virtuously. "I won't have it!" she cried. "This is my house, and I won't have it!"
Another voice pleaded with her—"Now wait! Please!"
"I'm goin' in there," asserted the landlady. She came pounding against the hall door, opened it, and entered, her bobbed hair lifting and falling with the rush of her coming. "Say! What do you call this, anyhow?" she demanded, shaking off the hand with which Sue was attempting to restrain her.
"Keep out of here," ordered Balcome, advancing upon her boldly.
She met him without flinching. "I won't have no knock-down and drag-out in my house!" she declared. "This is a respectable——"
"Oh, I'm used to tantrums," he retorted. And without more ado, he forced Miss St. Clair backward into the hall, followed her, and shut himself as well as her out of the room.
"I'll have you arrested for this!" she shrilled.
"Oh, shut up!"
Their voices mingled, and became less audible.
"You can't blame her," said Sue. "Really, from out there, it sounded suspiciously like murder." She stared at her brother. He was not kneeling now, but half-sitting, half-lying, in an awkward sprawl, at Farvel's feet, much as if he had thrown himself down in a fit of temper.
Farvel turned to her. His face was set. His eyes were dull, as if a glaze was spread upon them. His hands twitched. But he spoke quietly. "Get this man out of here," he directed, "or Ishallkill him."
"Oh, go! Go!" pleaded Mrs. Milo.
"Go!" added Clare. She threw herself into the chair at the table, put her arms on the cloth, and her face in her arms.
Sue ran to Wallace, took his arm and tugged at it, lifting him. He stumbled up, still weeping a little, but weakly. As she turned him toward the hall, he put an arm across her shoulders for support.
Mrs. Milo followed them. She was not in the dark as to the nature of her son's tearful admission. But she had no mind to blame him. Resorting to her accustomed tactics, she put Farvel in the wrong. "I never should have trusted my dear boy to you," she cried. "I thought he would be under good influences in a clergyman's house. Only eighteen, and you make him responsible!"
The door opened, and Balcome was there. He looked at Wallace not unkindly. "Pretty tough luck, young man," he observed.
At sight of Balcome, Mrs. Milo remembered the wedding. "Oh!" she gasped. And turning about to Farvel in a wild appeal, "Oh, Hattie! Think of poor Hattie! Won't you forget yourself in this? Won't you help us to keep it all quiet? Oh, we mustn't ruin her life!" She returned to the rocker, her fingers to her eyes, as if she were pressing back the tears.
Balcome had come in, closing the door. He crossed to Farvel, his big, blowzy face comical in its gravity. "Mr. Farvel," he said, "whatever concerns that young man concerns my—little girl." He blinked with emotion. "So—so that's why I ask, who is this young woman?"
Before Farvel could reply, Clare lifted her head, stood suddenly, and stared Balcome from his disheveled hair to his wide, soft, well-worn shoes. "Oh, allow me, Alan!" she cried. "You know, they're just about to burst, both of 'em!"—for Mrs. Milo was peering at her over a handkerchief, the blue eyes bright with expectancy. "If they don't know the worst in five seconds, there'll be an explosion sure!" She laughed harshly. Then with mock ceremony, and impudently, "Mr. Balcome,—anddearMrs. Milo, permit me to introduce myself. I am your charming clergyman's beloved bride." She curtsied.
No explosion could have brought Mrs. Milo to her feet with more celerity. While Balcome stumbled backward, the red of his countenance taking on an apoplectic greenish tinge.
"Bride?" he cried.
"Wife?" gasped Mrs. Milo, hollowly.
But almost instantly the blue eyes lighted with a smile. She put back her bonneted head to regard Clare from under lowered lashes. "Ah!" she sighed in relief. No longer was there need to fear publicity for her son; here was a situation that insured against it.
"Yes, you feel better, don't you?" commiserated Clare, sarcastically."—Tuh!"
Balcome was blinking harder than ever. "Well, I'll be damned!" he vowed under his breath.
By now Mrs. Milo's smile had grown into a clear, joyous, well-modulated laugh. "Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—Wife!" she exulted. "That is most interesting! Hm!—And it changes everything, doesn't it?"—this to no one in particular. She reseated herself, studying the floor thoughtfully, finding her glasses meanwhile, and tapping a finger with them gently. "Hm!—Ah!—Yes."
Balcome replied to her, and with no idea of sparing her feelings. "Yes, that puts quite a different face on things," he agreed; "—on what Wallace has done. The home of his best friend!"
"Let's not talk about it!" begged Farvel.
"All right, Mr. Farvel," answered Balcome, soothingly. "But myHattie's happiness—that's what I'm thinking of." He came nearer toClare now. "And before I go," he said to her, "I'd like to ask you onemore question."
"Oh, you would!" she retorted ironically. "Well, I'm not going to answer any more questions. I've got a lot to do. And I want to be let alone." She made as if to go.
"Wait!" commanded Farvel.
She flushed angrily. "Well? Well? Well?" she demanded, her voice rising.
"We shan't trouble you again," assured the clergyman, more kindly.
"Then spit it out!" she cried to Balcome. "I want to know," beganBalcome, eyeing her keenly, "just whose child that is?"
It was Farvel's turn to gasp. "Child?" he echoed.
Mrs. Milo straightened against the green velours. "A child?" she said in turn.
"You know who I mean," declared Balcome, not taking his look fromClare. "That little girl who called you Auntie."
She tried to speak naturally. "That—that—she's a friend's child—a friend's child from up-State."
"You told us she was your sister's child," persisted Balcome.
She took refuge in a burst of temper. "Well, what if I did? I'm liable to say anything—to you!"
There was a pause. Farvel watched Clare, but she looked down, not trusting herself to meet his eyes. As for Balcome, he had reached a conclusion that did not augur well for the happiness of his daughter. And his gaze wandered miserably.
Curiously enough, not a hint occurred to Mrs. Milo that this new turn of affairs might have some bearing on her son. She found her voice first. "Ah, Mr. Balcome," she said sadly, nodding as she put away her glasses, "it's just as I told Sue: it's always the same story when a girl drops out of sight!"
"Oh, is that so!" returned the younger woman, wrathfully. "Well, it just happens, madam, that I was married."
"Laura!" entreated Farvel. "You mean—you mean the child is—ours?"
She tossed her head. "Is it bad news?" she asked.
Farvel's shoulders were shaking. "A-a-a-ah!" he murmured. He fumbled for a handkerchief, crumbled it, and held it against his face.
"My dear Mrs. Farvel," began Mrs. Milo, in her best manner, "believe me when I say that I'm very glad to hear all this. I know what the temptations of this great city are, and naturally——" She got up. "A reunited family, Mr. Farvel," she said, smiling graciously. "Oh, Susan will be so pleased!" She fluttered toward the door, "So pleased!"
Clare gave a hissing laugh. "Oh, how that news will scatter!" she exclaimed. And flounced into her chair.
Mrs. Milo was calling into the hall. "Susan! Susan dear!"
"On guard!" Sue was part way up the stairs, seated.
"Just a moment, my daughter." Leaving the door wide, Mrs. Milo came fluttering back. "It really didn't surprise me," she declared, with a wise nod at Balcome. "I half guessed a marriage."
"Hope for the worst!" mocked Clare.
Sue came in, with a quick look around. "Are you ready to go, mother?"
"You bet, mother isnotready to go,"—this Clare, under her breath.
"My dear," said her mother, sweetly, "we have called you in to tell you some good news."
Sue smiled. "I could manage to bear up under quite a supply of good news." Farvel was brushing at his eyes. His face was averted, but she guessed that he had been crying.
"First of all, Susan, Miss Crosby is——"
"Now, mother, does Miss Crosby want——"
"Wa-a-ait! Please! It is something she wishes you to know.—Am I right?" This with that characteristic smile so wholly muscular.
"Right as the mail!" assured Clare, ironically again, and borrowing an expression learned from Hull.
"Ah! Thank you!—Susan, Miss Crosby is not Miss Crosby at all. She is married.—I'm so glad your husband has found you, my dear."
"Found? You—you don't mean——" There was a frightened look in Sue's eyes.
Her mother misunderstood the look. "Yes, lucky Mr. Farvel," she said, beaming. Then with precision, since Sue seemed not to comprehend, "Mrs.—Alan—Farvel."
"I—see."
"Didn't I practically guess that Mr. Farvel was married?"
"Married,"—it was like an echo.
"And I was right!"
"Yes, mother,—yes—you're—you're always right."
"Mr. Farvel, we congratulate you!—Don't we, dear?"
"Congratulations."
Something in Sue's face made Farvel reach out his hand to her. She took it mechanically. Thus they stood, but not looking at each other.
Once more Mrs. Milo was playfully teasing. "Why shouldn't we all know that you had a wife?" she twittered. It was as if she had added, "You bad, bad boy!"
"Yes," said Sue. "Why not? Rectors do have them. There's no canon against it." She laughed tremulously, and dropped his hand.
Clare tossed her head. "There ought to be!" she declared.
At that, Mrs. Milo threw out both arms dramatically. "Oh! Oh, dear!" she cried. "I've just thought of something!"
"I'll bet!" Clare turned, instantly apprehensive.
"Save it, mother!" begged Sue, eager to avert whatever might be impending; "—save it till we get home. Come! Mr. and Mrs. Farvel will have things to talk over." And to the clergyman, "We'll take Mr. Balcome and go on ahead."
"Now wait!" bade Mrs. Milo, gently. "Why are you so impetuous, daughter? Why don't you listen to your mother? Why do you take it for granted that I want to make Mrs. Farvel unhappy?"—this in a chiding aside.
"I don't, mother."
"Indeed, I am greatly concerned about her. She believed her husband dead, poor girl. And now"—with a sudden, disconcerting turn on Clare—"what about your engagement?"
"I'm—I'm not engaged!" As she sprang up, the girl pressed both hands against the wine-colored velveteen of her skirt, hiding them. "I never said I was! Oh, I wish you'd mind your own business!"
"Mother! Mother!" pleaded Sue. "It was you who said it. NotMiss—Mrs. Farvel. Don't you remember?"
"HowcouldI be engaged?" She was emboldened by Sue's help. "I knew he wasn't—dead."
Farvel laughed a little bitterly. "You mean, no such luck, don't you,Laura?" he asked. "Well, then,—I've got some good news for you."
"What? What?"—with a sudden, eager movement toward him.
"When five years had passed, and no word had come from you, though we all felt that you were alive, your brother—in order to settle the estate—had you declared legally dead. And naturally, that—that——"
"I'm free!" She put up both hands, and lifted her face—almost as if in prayerful thanksgiving. "I'm free! I'm free!" Then she gave way to boisterous laughter, and fell to walking to and fro, waving her arms, and turning her head from side to side. "I'm dead, but I'm free! Oh, ha! ha! ha!—Well, thatisgood news! Free! Andyou'refree!"
"No, I am not free," he said quietly. "But it doesn't matter."
"You are free," she protested. "Anyhow, I'm not going to let any of that nonsense stand in my way. And don't you—church or no church. Life's too short." Her manner was hurried. She caught at Farvel's arm. "We're both free, Alan, so there's nothing more to say, is there? Except, good-by. Good-by, Alan,——"
Mrs. Milo interrupted. "But the child," she reminded. "Your daughter?"
"Daughter?" Sue turned to Balcome, questioning him, and half-guessing.
"Yes, my dear. Isn't it lovely? Mr. and Mrs. Farvel have a little girl."
"That's the one," Balcome explained, as if Clare was not within hearing. He jerked his head toward the hall. "The one that called her Auntie."
"Auntie?" Mrs. Milo seized upon the information. "You surely don't mean that the child calls her own mother Auntie?"
Clare broke in. "I'll tell you how that is," she volunteered. "You see"—speaking to Sue—"I've never told her I'm her mother. She thinks her mother's in Africa; her father, too. Because—because I've always planned to give her to some good couple—a married couple. Don't you see, as long as Barbara doesn't know, they could say, 'We are your parents.'"
"But you couldn't give her up like that!" cried Sue, earnestly.
"No," purred Mrs. Milo. "You must keep your baby. And, doubtless"—this with the ingratiating smile, the tip of the head, and the pious inflection—"doubtless you two will wish to re-marry—for the sake of the child."
"No!" cried Clare. "No! No!No!"
"No, Mrs. Milo," added Farvel, quietly. "She shall be free."
"No, for Heaven's sake!" put in Balcome. "Don't raise another girl like Hattie's been raised."
Mrs. Milo showed her dislike of the remark, with its implied criticism of her own judgment. And she was uneasy over the turn that the whole matter had taken. Farvel married, no matter to whom, was one thing: Farvel very insecurely tied, and possessed of a small daughter whose mother repudiated her, that was quite another. She watched Sue narrowly, for Sue was watching Farvel.
"But the little one," said the clergyman, turning to Clare; "I'd like to see her."
"Sure!" She was all eagerness. "Why not?—Yes."
"Where is she?"
"Out of town. At Poughkeepsie. She boards with some people."
"Ah, good little mother!" said Sue, smiling. "Your baby's not in anInstitution!"
Clare blushed under the compliment. "No, I—I shouldn't like to have her in an Orphanage."
"Can she come down right away?" asked Farvel.
"Yes! Right away! I'll go after her now."
"I'll go with you," suggested Sue. "May I?"
She tried to catch Farvel's eye, to warn him.
"But, Susan," objected Mrs. Milo; "I can't spare you."
"Oh, I can go alone," protested Clare. "I don't need anybody."
Behind her back, Balcome held up a lead-pencil at Sue.
She understood, "We'll send for the baby. Now, what's the address?" She proffered Clare the pencil and an envelope from one of Balcome's sagging pockets. Then to him, as Clare wrote, "Would you mind going back to the Rectory and sending me Dora?"
"Good idea!" He pulled on the big hat.
"Dora?" cried Mrs. Milo. "That child?"
"Child!" laughed Sue. "Why, I'd send her to Japan. You don't think she'd ever succumb to the snares and pitfalls of this wicked world! She'll set the whole train to memorizing Lamentations!"
Mrs. Milo's eyes narrowed. Sue's sudden interest in Farvel's daughter was irritating and disturbing. "Wait, Brother Balcome," she begged. "Sue,Idon't see why the little girl's own mother shouldn't go for her."
"Of course, I can."
Balcome waited no longer. With a meaning glance at Sue, and a scowl for Mrs. Milo, he hurried out.
"Oh, let Dora go, Mrs. Farvel," urged Sue. "And meanwhile, you can be getting settled somewhere."
Clare looked pleased. "Yes. All right."
"Then she will leave here?" inquired Mrs. Milo.
"Oh, she must," declared Sue, "if she's going to have her baby come to her." She indicated the suitcase. "Is there more?"
"A trunk. And it won't take me ten minutes." As she turned to go, Clare's look rested on the bird-cage, and she put out a hand toward it involuntarily—then checked her evident wish to take it with her, and disappeared into her own room.
"Where had she better go?" asked Farvel, appealing to Sue. "You'll know best, I'm sure——"
Mrs. Milo fluttered to join them. "Of course," she began, her voice full of sweet concern, "there are organized Homes for young women who've made mistakes——"
"Sh!" cautioned Farvel, with a nervous look toward the double door.
"There's the little one, mother," reminded Sue.
"Oh, but hear me out," begged the elder woman. "In this case, I'm not advising such an institution. I suggest some very nice family hotel."
Sue lowered her voice. "It won't do," she said. "We want to help her—and we want to help the baby. If she goes alone to a hotel, we'll never see her again. Just before you came——" She went close to the double door. Beyond it, someone was moving quickly about, with much rustling of paper. She came tiptoeing back. "She tried to steal away," she whispered.
"I mustn't lose track of my daughter," declared Farvel. He, too, went to listen for sounds from the back-parlor.
"Then we'd better take her right to the Rectory," advised Sue, "and have Barbara brought there."
Mrs. Milo bristled. "Now if you please!" she exclaimed angrily.
Farvel crossed to her, eyeing her determinedly. "I don't see any serious objection," he observed challengingly. "Your son—will not be there."
"You've lost your senses! Have you no regard for the conventions?This woman is your ex-wife!"
"But if there is no publicity—and for just a few days, mother."
Mrs. Milo attempted to square those slender shoulders. "I won't have that girl at the Rectory," she replied with finality.
Farvel smiled. "But the Rectory ismyhome, Mrs. Milo."
"Oh, for the sake of the child, mother! For no other reason."
"Ifshe comes, I shall leave—leave for good!"
Farvel bowed an acceptance of her edict. "Well, sheiscoming," he said firmly; "and so is Barbara."
"Then I shan't sleep under that roof another night!" Mrs. Milo trembled with wrath. "Come, Susan!Weshall do some packing." She bustled to the hall door, but paused there to right her bonnet—an excuse for delaying her departure against the capitulation of her opponents. She longed to speak at greater length and more plainly, but she dreaded what Farvel might say against her son.
Sue did not follow. "But, mother!" she whispered. "Mr. Farvel!—Oh, don't let her hear any of this!" She motioned the clergyman toward the rear room. "Sh!—You offer to help her! Go in there! Oh, do!"
He nodded. "And you'll come with us to the Rectory?"
"Indeed, she won't!" cried Mrs. Milo, coming back. "The very idea!"
Farvel ignored her. "You see," he added, with just a touch of humor, "we'll have to have a chaperone." He knocked.
"Oh, come in!" called Clare.
Sue shut the door behind him; then she took her mother with her to the bay-window, halted her there as if she were standing one of the naughty orphans in a corner, and looked at her in sorrowful reproval.
Mrs. Milo drew away from the touch of her daughter's hand irritably. "Now, don't glare at me like that!" she ordered. "The Rectory is not a reformatory."
"Oh, let's not take that old ruined-girl attitude!" replied Sue, impatiently. "Laura Farvel doesn't need reforming. She needs kindness and love."
"Love!" repeated Mrs. Milo, scornfully. "Do you realize that you're talking about a woman who led your own brother astray?"
"I don't know who did the leading," Sue answered quietly. "As a matter of fact, they were both very young——"
"Wallace is a good boy!"
"The less we say about Wallace in this matter the better. Why don'tyou go to him, mother? He must be very unhappy. He will want advice.And there's Mr. Balcome—shouldn't you and he take all this up withHattie's mother?"
"Wallace will tell Hattie. We can trust him. But I don't want you to act foolish. Is she going to bring that child to the Rectory?"
"To the home of the child's own father? Why not?"
"Yes! And you'll get attached to her!"
Sue did not guess at the real fear that lay behind her mother's words. "But youwantme to, don't you? I'm attached to a hundred others there already. And you'll love Barbara, too."
"There! You see?—Wherever a young one is concerned, you utterly forget your mother!"
"Why—why——" Sue put a helpless hand to her forehead. "Forget you?I don't see how the little one would make any difference——"
Farvel interrupted, opening the double door a few inches to look in."Miss Susan,—just a minute?"
"Can I help?" Without waiting for the protest to be expected from her mother, Sue hurried out.
Mrs. Milo stayed where she was, staring toward the back-parlor. "O-o-o-oh! To the Rectory!" she stormed. "It's abominable! I won't have it! Such an insult!—The creature!"
Someone entered from the hall—noiselessly. It was Tottie, wearing her best manners, and with a countenance from which, obviously, she had extracted, as it were, some of the rosy color worn at her earlier appearance. She had smoothed her bobbed red tresses, too, and a long motor veil of a lilac tinge made less obtrusive the décolleté of the tea-gown.
"Young woman," began Mrs. Milo, speaking low, and with an air of confidence calculated to flatter; "this—this Miss Crosby;" (she gave a jerky nod of her bonnet to indicate the present whereabouts of that person) "you've known her some time?"
A wise smile spread upon Miss St. Clair's derouged face. She dropped her lashes and lifted them again. "Long," she replied significantly, "andintimate."
The blue eyes danced. "My daughter seems interested in her. And I have a mother's anxiety."
Tottie was blessed with a sense of humor, but she conquered her desire to laugh. The daughter in question was a woman older than herself; under the circumstances, a "mother's anxiety" was hardly deserving of sympathy. Nevertheless, the landlady answered in a voice that was deep with condolence. "Oh,Iunderstand how y' feel," she declared.
"We know very little about her. I wonder—canyou—tell me—something."
Tottie let her eyes fall—to the modish dress, with its touches of lace; to a pearl-and-amethyst brooch that held Mrs. Milo's collar; to the fresh gloves and the smart shoes. She recognized good taste even though she did not choose to subscribe to it; also, she recognized cost values. She looked up with a mysterious smile. "Well," she said slowly, "I don't like to—knock anybody."
"A-a-ah!" triumphed the elder woman; "I thought so!—Now, you won't let me be imposed upon! Please! Quick!" A white glove was laid on a chiffon sleeve.
"Sh!—Later! Later!" The landlady drew away, pointing toward the back-parlor warningly. The situation was to her taste. She seemed to be a part of one of those very scenes for which her soul yearned—melodramatic scenes such as she had witnessed across footlights, with her husky-voiced favorite in the principal role.
"I'll come back," whispered Mrs. Milo.
"No. I'll 'phone you." With measured tread, Tottie stalked to the double door, her eyes shifting, and one hand outstretched with spraddling fingers to indicate caution.
Mrs. Milo trotted after her. "But I think I'd better come back."
Tottie whirled. "What's your 'phone number?"
"Stuyvesant—three, nine, seven,"—this before she could remember that she was not planning to sleep under the Rectory roof again.
"Don't I git more'n a number?" persisted Tottie. "Whom 'm I to ask for?"
"Just say 'Mrs. Milo.'"
"Stuyvesant—three, nine, seven, Mrs. Milo," repeated Tottie, leaning down at the table to note the data. Then with the information safely registered, "Of course, it'll be worth somethin' to you."
Mrs. Milo almost reeled. She opened her mouth for breath."Why—why—you mean——" All her boasted poise was gone.
Tottie grinned—with a slanting look from between half-lowered lashes. "I mean—money," she said softly; and gave Mrs. Milo a playful little poke.
"Money!"—too frightened, now, even to resent familiarity. "Money!Oh, you wouldn't——! You don't——!"
"Yes, ma'am! You want somethin' from me, and I can give it to y', but you're goin' topayfor it!"
The double door opened. Sue entered, her look startled and inquiring.It was plain that she had overheard.
Mrs. Milo pretended not to have noted Sue's coming. "Yes, very well," she said to Tottie, as if continuing a conversation that was casual; but the blue eyes were frightened. "Thank you somuch!"—warmly. "And isn't that a bell I hear ringing?" She gave the landlady a glance full of meaning.
"Ha-ha!" With a nod and a saucy backward grin, Tottie went out.
For a moment neither mother nor daughter spoke. Sue waited, trying to puzzle out the significance of what she had caught; and scarcely daring to charge an indiscretion. Mrs. Milo waited, forcing Sue to speak first, and thus betray how much she had heard.
"I thought you'd gone," ventured Sue.
"Gone, darling? Without you?"
"That woman;"—Sue came closer—"I hope you were very careful."
"Why, I was!"—this not without the note of injured innocence always so effective.
But Sue was not to be blocked so easily. "You're going to pay her for what?"
"Pay?"
"What was she saying?"
Now Mrs. Milo realized that she had been heard: that she must save herself from a mortifying situation by some other method than simple justification. She took refuge in tears. "I can see that you're trying to blame me for something!" she complained, and sank, weeping, to the settee.
"I don't like to, mother," answered Sue, "but——"
That good angel who watches over those who see no other way out of an embarrassing predicament save the unlikely arrival of an earthquake or an aeroplane now intervened in Mrs. Milo's behalf. Dora came in, showing that the bell had, indeed, been summoning the mistress of the house. Behind Dora was Tottie, and the attitude of each to the other was plainly belligerent.
"As you don't know your Scriptures," Dora was saying, with a sad intonation which marked Tottie as one of those past redemption, "I'll repeat the reference for you: 'Curiosity was given to man as a scourge.'" Then in anything but a spirit proper to a biblical quotation, she slammed the door in Tottie's face.
Mrs. Milo, dry-eyed, was on her feet to receive Dora. "Oh, you impudent!" she charged. "That's the reference you gaveme—when I asked you who was telephoning my daughter! I looked it up!"
"Ah, Mrs. Milo!" Dora put finger-tips together and cast mournful eyes up to Tottie's chandelier. "'The tongue is a world of iniquity.'"
Sue took her by a shoulder, shaking her a little. "Dora, I'm sending you out of town."
"Oh, Miss Susan!" All nonsense was frightened out of her. "Don't send me away! I tried to do my best—to keep her from coming here! But, oh, Deuteronomy, nine, thirteen!"
"Deuteronomy, nine, thirteen," repeated Mrs. Milo, wrinkling her brows.Her eyes moved as she cudgeled her brain. "Deuteronomy——"
Sue gave Dora another shake. "Listen, my dear! I'm sending you after a little girl. Here! Twenty dollars, and it's Mr. Farvel's."
"Oh, Miss Susan!"—with abject relief. "Gladly do I devote my gifts, poor as they are, to your service." And in her best ministerial manner, "Where is the child?" She tucked the paper bill into a glove.
"Poughkeepsie,"—Sue gave her the address. "Go up this afternoon—right away. And return the first thing in the morning. Bring her straight to the Rectory. Now, you'll have quite a ride with that baby, Dora. And I want you to get her ready for the happiest moment in all her little life! Do you hear?—the happiest, Dora! And, oh, here's where you must be eloquent!"
"Oh, Miss Susan, 'I am of slow speech, and of a slow tongue.'"
"I'll tell you what to say," reassured Sue. "You say to her that you're bringing her to her mother; and that she's going to live with her mother, in a little cottage somewhere—a cottage running over with roses."
"Roses," echoed Dora, and counting on her fingers, "—mother, cottage, garden——"
"And tell her that she's got a dear mother—so brave, and good, and sweet, and pretty. And her mother loves her—don't forget that!—loves her better than anything else in the whole world——"
"Loves her," checked off Dora, pulling aside another finger; "—brave, good, sweet, pretty——"
"Yes, and there's going to be no more boarding out—no more forever! Oh, the lonely little heart!" Sue took Dora by both shoulders. "Her mother's waiting for her! Her mother! Her own mother!"
"Boarding out,"—checking again; "—waiting mother. Miss Susan, I shall return by the first train tomorrow, Providence permitting." This last was accompanied by a solemn look at Mrs. Milo, and a roguish hop-skip that freed her from Sue's hold.
"Oh, the very first!" urged Sue. "Dora!"
Dora swung herself out.
Now Mrs. Milo seemed her usual self once more. "Then Mrs. Farvel will not remain at the Rectory?" she inquired.
"Oh, how could she? Of course not! They called me in to tell me: Mrs.Farvel and Barbara will leave New York in two or three days."
"Good! Meanwhile, we shall stay at the hotel with Mrs. Balcome."
"But Imustgo to the Rectory."
"Isee no necessity."
"Why, mother! Mrs. Farvel couldn't possibly go there without someone.Surely you see how it is. Besides, there's the house—Dora's gone, andI must go back."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," returned Mrs. Milo, tartly.
"Just for one night?"
"Not for one hour. They will get someone else."
"A stranger?—Now, mother! Mrs. Farvel needs me."
"Oh, she needs you, does she?"—resentfully. "And I suppose your own mother doesn't need you."
"You'll be with Wallace."
"So!" And with a taunting smile, "Perhaps Mr. Farvel also needs you."
"No." But now a curious look came into Sue's eyes—a look of comprehension. Jealousy! It was patent to her, as it had never been before. Her mother was jealous of Farvel; fearful that even at so late a date happiness might come to the middle-aged woman who was her daughter. "No," she said again. "He doesn't need me."
"_In_deed!"
"No—I need him."
Mrs. Milo was appalled. "A-a-a-ah! Sothat'sit! You need him!Now, we're coming to the truth!"
"Yes—the truth."
"That'swhy you couldn't rest till you'd followed this woman!" Mrs. Milo pointed a trembling hand toward the double door. "You were sure it was some love-affair. And you were jealous!"
Sue laughed. "Jealous," she repeated, bitterly.
"Yes, jealous! The fact of the matter is, you're crazy about AlanFarvel!" She was panting.
"And if—I am?" asked Sue.
"Oh!" It was a cry of fury. With a swift movement, Mrs. Milo passed Sue, pulled at the double door, and stood, bracing herself, as she almost shrieked down at Clare, kneeling before an open suitcase. "You've done this! You! You dragged my son down, and now you're coming between me and my daughter!"
Clare rose, throwing a garment aside.
"Mother! Mother!" Sue tried to draw her mother away.
Mrs. Milo retreated, but only to let Clare enter, followed by Farvel.
"Go back!" begged Sue. "Go back!—Mr. Farvel, take her!"
"Come, Laura! Come!"
But Clare would not go. "Yes, come—and let her wreak her meanness on Miss Milo! No! Here's a sample of what you're going to get, Alan, for insisting on my going to that Rectory. So you'd better hear it. I told you the plan is a mistake." And to Mrs. Milo, "Let's hear what you've got to say."
Righteous virtue glittered in the blue eyes. "I've got this to say!" she cried. "You've been missing ten years—ten years of running around loose. What've you been up to? Are you fit to be a friend of my daughter?"
Sue flung an arm about Clare. "I am her friend!" she declared. "I won't judge her!—Oh, mother!"
It only served to rouse Mrs. Milo further. "Ah, she knows I'm right!—You're going to lie, are you? You're going to palm yourself off on a decent man! Ha! You won't fool anybody! You're marked! Look in this glass!" She caught up the hand-mirror lying on the table and thrust it before Clare's face. "Look at yourself! It's as easy to read as paper written over with nasty things! Your paint and powder won't cover it! The badness sticks out like a scab!" Then as Clare, with a sudden twist of the body, and a sob, hid her face against Sue, Mrs. Milo tossed the mirror to the table. "There!" she cried. "I've had my say! Now take your bleached fallen woman to the Rectory!" And with a look of defiance, she went back to the rocking-chair and sat.
No one spoke for a moment. Sue, holding the weeping girl in her arms, and soothing her with gentle pats on the heaving shoulders, looked at her mother, answering the other's defiant stare angrily. "Ah, cruel! Cruel!" she said, presently. "And I know why. Oh, don't you feel that we should do everything in our power for Mr. Farvel, and not act like this? Haven't we Milos done enough to give him sorrow?" (It was characteristic that she did not say "Wallace," but charged his wrong-doing against the family.) "Here's our chance to be a little bit decent. And now you attack her. But—it's not because you think she's sinned: it's because you think I'm going—to the Rectory."
Now Clare freed herself gently from Sue's embrace, lifting her head wearily. "Oh, I might as well tell you both"—she looked at Farvel, too—"that she's right about me. There have been—other things."
Sue caught her hands. "Oh, then forget them!" she cried. "And remember only that you're going to be happy again!"
Clare hung her head. "But the lies," she reminded, under her breath. "The lies. Felix, he won't forgive me. Iamengaged to him. And he doesn't know that I've ever been married before. That's why I was so scared when I saw—when I guessed Alan was at the Rectory. And why I wanted to—to sneak a little while ago. Oh, I can't ever face Felix! I—I've never even told him that Barbara is mine."
"Letmetell him.—And surely marriage and a daughter aren't crimes.And he'll respect you for clinging to the child."
"He knows I meant to desert her," Clare whispered back. "Oh, Miss Milo, there's something wrong about me! I bore her. But I'm not her mother. I never can be. Some women are mothers just naturally. Look how those choir-boys love you! 'Momsey' they call you—'Momsey.' Ha! They know a mother when they see one!"
Mrs. Milo rocked violently, darting a scornful look at the little group. "Disgusting!" she observed.
The three gave her no notice. "You'll grow to love your baby," declared Sue. "You can't help it. Just wait till you've got a home—instead of a boarding-house. And trust us, and let us help you."
A wan smile. "Ah, how dear and good you are!" breathed the girl."Will you kiss me?"
"God love you!" Once more Sue caught the slender figure to her.
"So good! So good!"—weeping.
"Now no more tears! Let me see a smile!" Sue lifted the wet face.
Clare smiled and turned away. "I'll finish in here," she said, and went into the other room.
Farvel made as if to follow, but turned back. "Ah, Sue Milo, you are dear and good!" he faltered. Then coming to take her hand, "Your tenderness to Laura—your thought of the child! Ah, you're a woman in a million! How can I ever get on without you!" He raised her hand to his lips, held it a moment tightly between both of his, and went out.
Mrs. Milo had risen. Now she watched her daughter—the look Sue gave Farvel, and the glance down at the hand just caressed. To the jealous eyes of the elder woman, the clergyman's action, so full of tender admiration, conveyed but one thing—such an attachment as she had charged against Sue, and which now seemed fully reciprocated. With a burst of her ever available tears, she dropped back into her chair.
But the tears did not avail. For Sue stayed where she was. And her face was grave with understanding. "Ah, mother," she said, with a touch of bitterness. "I knew my happiness would make you happy!"
"Laura!" It was Farvel, calling from the back-parlor. "Laura! Laura!Where are you?"
Sue met him as he rushed in. "What——?"
"She's not there!" He ran to the hall door, calling as before.
"She's gone?" Sue went the opposite way, to look from the rear back-parlor window that commanded a small square of yard.
Mrs. Milo ceased to weep.
"Laura! Laura!" Farvel called up the stairs.
"Hello-o-o-o!" sang back Tottie.
"Laura! Laura!" Now Farvel was on the steps outside. He descended to the sidewalk, turned homeward, halted, reconsidering, then hurried the opposite way.
Hat in hand, and on tiptoe, Clare slipped from her room to the hall, and down the stairs leading to the service-entrance beneath the front steps. Her coat was over an arm, and a Japanese wrist-bag hung beside it. As noiselessly as possible, she let herself out. Then bareheaded still, but not too hurriedly, and forcing a pleasant, unconcerned expression, she turned away from the brownstone house—going toward the Rectory.
Across the street, waiting under steps that offered him the right concealment, a man was loitering. In the last hour he had seen a number of people enter Tottie's, and five had left—the child and Mrs. Colter, a fat man and a slim, and a quaint-looking girl with her hair in pig-tails. He had stayed on till Clare came out; then as she fled, but without a single look back, he prepared to follow.
But he did not forsake his hiding-place until she had turned the first corner. Then he raced forward, peered around the corner cautiously, located her by the bobbing of her yellow head among other heads all hatted, and fell in behind her at a discreet distance.
Now she put on her hat—but without stopping. She adjusted her coat, too. At the end of the block, she crossed the street and made a second turn.
Once more the man ran at top speed, and was successful in locating the hat tilted so smartly. And again he settled down to the pace no faster than hers. Thus the flight and the pursuit began.
At first, Clare walked at a good rate, with her head held high. But gradually she went more slowly, and with head lowered, as if she were thinking.
She did not travel at random. Her course was a northern one, though she turned to right and left alternately, so that she traced a Greek pattern. Presently, rounding a corner, she turned up the steps of a house exteriorally no different from Tottie's, save for the changed number on the tympanum of colored glass above its front door, and the white card lettered in black in a front window—a card that marked the residence as the headquarters of the Gramercy Club for Girls.
Clare rang.
The man came very near to missing her as she waited for the answering of the bell. And it seemed as if she could not fail to see him, for she looked about her from the top of the steps. When she was admitted, he sat down on a coping to consider his next move.
Twice he got up and went forward as it to mount the steps of the Club; but both times he changed his mind. Then, near at hand, occupying a neighboring basement, he spied a small shop. In the low window of the shop, among hats and articles of handiwork, there swung a bird-cage. He hurried across the street, entered the store, still without losing sight of the steps of the Club, and called forward the brown-cheeked, foreign-looking girl busily engaged with some embroidery in the rear of the place. A question, an eager reply, a taking down of the canary, and he went out, carrying the cage.
Very erect he was as he strode back to the Club. Here was a person about to go through with an unpleasant program, but virtuously determined on his course. His jaw was set grimly. He climbed to the storm-door, and rang twice, keeping his finger on the bell longer than was necessary. Then, very deliberately, he adjusted hispince-nez.
A maid answered his ring—a maid well past middle-age, with gray hair, and an air of authority. She looked her displeasure at his prolonged summoning.
"Miss Crosby is here," he began; "I mean the young woman who just came in." He was very curt, very military; and ignored the reproof in her manner. "Please say that Mr. Hull has come."
The maid promptly admitted him.
But to make sure that he would not fail in his purpose to seeClare—that she would not escape from the Club as quietly as she hadleft Tottie's, he now lifted the bird-cage into view. "Tell MissCrosby that Mr. Hull has brought the canary," he added.
"Very well,"—the servant went up the stairs at a leisurely pace that was irritating.
She did not return. Instead, Clare herself appeared at the top of the staircase, and descended slowly, looking calmly at him as she came. Her hat was off, and she had tidied her hair. Something in her manner caused him to move his right arm, as if he would have liked to screen the cage. She glanced at the bird, then at him. Her look disconcerted him. Hispince-nezdropped to the end of its ribbon, and clinked musically against a button.
She did not speak until she reached his side. "I just called theNorthrups on the 'phone and asked for you," she began.
"Oh?" He made as if to set the cage down.
"You'd better bring it into the sitting-room," she said.
"Yes." He reddened.
The sitting-room of the Club was a full sister to that garish front-parlor of Tottie's, but a sister tastefully dressed. The woodwork was ivory. The walls were covered with silk tapestry in which an old-blue shade predominated. The curtains of velvet, and the chairs upholstered in the same material, were of a darker blue that toned in charmingly with the walls. Oriental rugs covered the floor.
"You need not have brought an—excuse," Clare observed, as she closed the door to the hall.
"Well, I thought," he explained, smiling a little sheepishly, "that perhaps——"
"Particularly," she interrupted, cuttingly, "as I remember how you said a little while ago that you hate a liar." She lifted her brows.
She had caught him squarely. The cage was a lie. He put it behind a chair, where it would be out of sight.
"Well, you see," he went on lamely, "if you hadn't wanted to see me, why—why——" (Here he was, apologetic!)
"Oh, I quite understand. It's always legitimate for a man to cheat a woman, isn't it? It's not legitimate for a woman to cheat a man." She seated herself.
He winced. He had expected something so different—weeping, pleading, the wringing of hands; or, a hidden face and heaving shoulders, and, of course, more lies. Instead, here was only quiet composure, more dignity of carriage than he had ever noted in her before, and a firmly shut mouth. He had anticipated being hurt by the sobbing confessions he would force from her. But her cool indifference, her self-possession, were hurting him far more. Their positions were unpleasantly reversed. And he was standing before her, as if he, and not she, was the culprit!
"Sit down, please," she bade, courteously.
He sat, pulling at his mustache. Now he was getting angry. His look roved beyond her, as he sought for the right beginning.
"What I'd like to ask," he commenced, "is, are you prepared to tell me all I ought to know—about yourself?" ("Tell me the truth" was what he would have liked to say, but the confounded cage made impossible any allusion to truth!)
She smiled. "And I'd like to know, are you prepared to tell me all—all I ought to know—about yourself?"
"Oh, now come!" he returned—and could go no further. Here was more of the unexpected: he was being put on the defensive!
"You've been a soldier," she went on; "you've seen a lot of the world before you met me. But you didn't recite anything you'd done. You expected me to take you 'as is,' and I thought, naturally enough, that that was the way you meant to take me."
"But I don't see why a girl should know about matters in which she is not concerned—which were a part of a man's past."
"Exactly. And that's just the way I felt about matters in which you were not concerned. But—I was wrong, wasn't I? You're not an American. You're a European. And you have the Continental attitude toward women—proprietorship, and so on."
He stared. He had never heard her talk like this before. "Ah, um," he murmured, still worrying the mustache. She was using no slang, and that "Continental attitude"—his glance said, "Where did you come bythat?"
"I've known all along that you had the Old World bias—the idea that it is justice for the Pot to call the Kettle black—the idea that a man can do anything, but that a woman is lost forever if she happens to make one mistake. That all belongs, of course, right back where you came from. No doubt your mother taught——"
"Please leave my mother out of this discussion!" Here was something he could say with great severity and dignity—something that would imply the contrast between what Clare Crosby stood for and the high standards of his mother, whose fame might not be tarnished even through the mention of her name by a culpable woman.
Clare laughed. "Early Victorian," she commented, cheerfully; "that do-not-sully-the-fair-name-of-mother business. It's in your blood, Felix,—along with the determination you feel never to change when once you've made up your mind, as if your mind were something that has set itself solid, as metal does when it's run into a mold."
"Oh, indeed! Just like that!"
She nodded. "Precisely. And when you make up your mind that someone is wrong, or has hurt your vanity (which is worse), you are just middle-class enough to love to swing a whip."
He got up. "Pardon me if I don't care to listen to your opinion of me any longer," he said. "It just happens that I've caught you at your tricks today."
"It just happens that youthinkyou've caught me—you've dropped to that conclusion. But—do you know anything?"
"Well—well,——"
"You shall. Please sit down again. And feel that you were justified—that I am really a culprit of some kind—just as you are."
He sat, too astonished to retort—but too curious to take himself away.
"Because I really want to tell you quite a little about myself." There was a glint of real humor in her eyes. "And first of all, I want to tell the real truth, and it'll make you feel a lot better—it'll soothe your vanity."
"You seem to have a rather sudden change in your opinion of me." He tried to be sarcastic. And he leaned back, folding his arms.
"Oh, no. I've always known that you were vain, and hard. But I didn't expect perfection."
"Ah."
"But, first, let me tell you—when I left Tottie's just now, I thought of the river. Suicide—that's what first came to my mind."
"I'm very glad you changed it,"—this with almost a parental note. Her mention of the river had soothed his vanity!
"Oh, are you?" She laughed merrily.
"And what brought about the—the——"
"Sue Milo."
"Er—who do you say?" He had expected a compliment.
"A woman you don't know—a woman that you must have seen go intoTottie's just after Barbara left—as you stood sentry."
"Ah, yes." He had the grace to blush again.
"She is the secretary at the Church near by—you know, St. Giles. She keeps books, and answers telephones, and types sermons, and does all the letters for the Rector—formerly my husband."
An involuntary start—which he adroitly made the beginning of an assent.
"I've met her only a few times. But I feel as if I'd known her all my life. Oh, how dearherattitude was!" Sudden tears trembled in her eyes.
"Different from mine, eh?"
"Absolutely! It was the contrast between you and her that made me see things as they are—twenty blocks, I walked—and such a change!"
"Fancy!"
"When I was thinking I might as well die, I said, 'Ifhewere in trouble today, I'd be tender and kind to him. But when I cried out to him, what I got was no faith—no help—only suspicion.' All my devotion since I've known you—it counted for nothing the moment you knew something was wrong. And I was half-crazy with fear just at the thought of losing you." Her look said that she had no such fear now.
He shifted his feet uneasily.
"Then I said to myself, 'Why, you poor thing, it's only a question of time when you'd lose him anyhow.' Even if we married, Felix, we wouldn't be happy long. It would be like living over a charge of dynamite. Any minute our home might blow up."
He smiled loftily. "And Miss—er—What's-her-name, she fixed everything?"
"She helped me! I've never met anyone just like her before. I've met plenty of the holier-than-thou variety. That's the only sort I knew before I ran away from my husband." She was finding relief in talking so frankly. "Then there's Tottie's kind—ugh! But Miss Milo is the new kind—a woman with a fair attitude toward other women; with a generous attitude toward mistakes even. That old lady you saw go in—she's so good that she'd send me to the stake." She laughed. "But her daughter—if she knew that I had sinned as much as you have, she'd treat me even better than she'd treat you."
"You'll be a militant next," he observed sneeringly.
"Oh, I'm one already! But I'm not blaming anything on anybody else. For whatever's gone wrong, I can just thank myself. All these ten years, I've taken the attitude that I mustn't be discovered—that I must hide, hide, hide. I have been living over a charge of dynamite, and I set it myself. I've been afraid of a scarecrow that I dressed myself.
"I don't know why I did it. Because if they'd ever traced me, what harm would it have done?—I wouldn't have gone back unless I was carried by main force. But the papers said I was dead. So I just set myself to keep the idea up. Next thing, I met you. Then I wasn't afraid of a shadow—I had something real to fear: losing you.
"But now I don't care what you think, or what you're going to do, or what you say. I'm not even going to let Alan Farvel think that Barbara's his—when she isn't."
He shot a swift look at her. So! The child was her own, after all!His lip curled.
She understood. "Oh, get the whole thing clear while you're about it," she said indifferently. "I'm not trying to cover. At least I didn't lose sight of the child. Miss Milo praised me for that.—But—the truth is, I'm not like most other women. I'm not domestic. I never can be. Why worry about it."
"You take it all very cool, I must say! And you're jolly sure of yourself. Don't need help, eh? Highty-tighty all at once." But there was a note of respect in his voice.
"I've got friends," she said proudly. "And if I need help I know where to get it."
The maid entered. "Your tea is ready, Miss."
Clare stood up and put out a hand. "We'll run across each other again,I suppose," she said cordially.
He could scarcely believe his ears—which were burning. "Oh, then you're not lighting out?"
"When I love little old New York so much? Not a chance! No, you can go and get your supper without a fear." She laughed saucily. Then as he turned, "Oh, don't forget the bird."
He leaned down, hating her for the ridiculousness of his situation. He did not glance round again. The gray-haired maid showed him out.