"She can go to New York without that! That contemptible man! I knew all summer he was filling her head with romantic notions, but I never dreamed of this. Why, she's nothing but a child! She doesn't know what love is——" Then her voice broke in sudden panic. "We must stop it at any cost. Go—go promise her anything. Tell her I'll send her to New York, to Europe, anywhere to get her out of that wretch's clutches. My poor child! My poor baby!"
Her grief was no less violent than her anger had been, and her tearless sobs almost shook her worn old frame to pieces.
Quin knew just how she felt. It had been like that with him last night when he heard the news. With one stride he was beside her and had gathered her into his arms.
"There, there!" he said tenderly. "It's going to be all right. We are going to find a way out."
This unexpected caress, probably the first one Madam had received in many years, reduced her to a state of unprecedented humility. She transferred her resentment from Eleanor to Harold Phipps, and announced herself ready to follow whatever course Quin suggested.
"I'd offer her just this and nothing more," he advised: "The fare to New York, tuition at the dramatic school, and ten dollars a week."
"She can't live on that."
"Yes, she can. Rose Martel does."
Madam became truculent at once.
"Don't quote that girl to me. Eleanor's been used to very different surroundings."