“That means, little dog,” she told him, “that you will have to stay at home.”
She searched the hurt member to make sure that the thorns were all out.
“Yes”—she was still bent over Patsy’s foot as she answered her father’s remark—“he is likable.... There, Patsy, don’t make a fuss.” She bound up the paw in her handkerchief.
“I do not know that he puzzled me,” she went on, straightening up. “I thought he seemed rather lonely, though.”
“He’s not likely to be that, long,” was Anderson’s reply. “It’s a thundering pity, too. I understand he’s in deep with that Hallard woman, though I’ve tried not to believe it. She don’t seem his kind. I asked him to come here again,” he went on, a little ruefully; “and yet I’m not sure I meant it.”
“What kind of woman is this Mrs. Hallard, Father?” Helen regarded her father now, with interest in her level grey eyes.
“Why,” Anderson said, doubtfully. “She’s not the kind I should think would catch him. It’s a case of catch, all right, though, I guess; even Westcott seemed to know about it.”
He considered a moment, frowning.
“She’s loud, and coarse, I suppose; but she’s a mighty handsome woman, if a man don’t care about some other things. And I somehow should think Gard would. I like a different sort, myself.”
He glanced proudly at the figure beside him. Helen was in her riding-habit, waiting for her horse to be brought round.