“Sometimes it helps one to see one’s way,” said my husband.
Aunt Briscoe shook her head. “What is it that’s the matter?” she asked, putting down her knitting and pushing up her spectacles. “Jack, I suppose. I suspected something wrong just now about him.”
“It is not Jack at all,” I said hastily. “It is Maimie Browne, Churton’s stepdaughter.”
Robert would have brought her to the idea more gently, I don’t doubt. She stared hard at me and said, “Is Marion out of her mind?”
“No, Aunt.” Robert was hardly able to help smiling. “But we have had unexpected news of Churton. He married a widow some years ago.”
“No reason why he shouldn’t,” said Aunt Briscoe. “He didn’t saddle himself with a wife at twenty. A man’s at liberty to marry later in life without wronging anybody, I hope. How many children has he? Not seven, I’ll be bound.”
“None of his own,” Robert said patiently. “There is only one stepdaughter. His wife is dead, and he has sent the girl home to us.”
“Sent her to you!”
“For a time—so she says—till he can have her with him again. He has gone into the States for some reason. Maimie expected him to have written, and he has not.”
“Send her back to him,” said Aunt Briscoe.