“Is that all?” she asked, quietly.
“That is all—except to say good-by and get out of the house where I’ve let myself be entertained under false pretenses.”
He rose as he spoke; sick at heart, and all at once feeling very, very old and wretched.
He realized with a queer pang that the last hour had somehow been the happiest he had ever known. And by contrast the future seemed to stretch away before him dreary and barren as a rainy sea.
Dad took an uncertain step toward the head of the attic stairs. A small and determined figure barred his way.
“Go back!” came the imperious command. “Go right back where you were, and sit down there. You may have said all you’ve got to say. But I haven’t, by a long shot.”
Dully he obeyed her. His flesh shrank from the thought of listening to the merited tongue-lashing that he felt was his due. Yet, like a scared schoolboy, he recognized and meekly obeyed the note of authority in his hostess’s voice.
“Now, then!” she said, planting herself squarely in front of him. “Aren’t you ashamed, Sergeant James Brinton? Aren’t you ashamed? Tolling me on like that to say scand’lous things about a poor man whose story I only half-knew. Oh, I’m a cruel, shrewish old woman to go on like I did about Brinton—about you.
“Who am I to sit in judgment on a poor, weak man whose love for drink overcomes him sometimes? Why, I’m just every mite as bad myself. Without my morning cup of tea, I’m no good at all. I lean on it as men lean on whisky.”
“But, madam—” he stammered.