Williams looked at the widow. Obviously she was deceiving either Hale or Antonia. That was no rejected lover who had just left the house. He speculated how the drama was going to unfold. There was no special purpose in deceiving Antonia. If there was to be a marriage, she would necessarily know it.
Perhaps Doris Helen was one of those people who couldn't say disagreeable things, but could write them.
Miss Southgate removed her hand from her eyes.
"And now," she said, "that nightmare is over, let us go back to Pasadena and begin our work editing my brother's memoirs."
Williams was aware of a certain bitter satisfaction in the thought that such a life was about all the little creature deserved, but the little creature was calmly shaking her head.
"No," she was saying gently; "no, I'm not going back to Pasadena, Antonia. I'm going to Spain."
Her sister-in-law stared at her.
"To Spain? But I don't want to go to Spain, Doris, and you can hardly go alone."
"I'm not going alone," answered Doris. "Mr. Hale is going with me."
Thirty years of training at the bar barely saved Williams from laughing aloud; the solution was so simple and so complete. The recollection flashed through his mind of the daughter of a friend of his, who when discovered in the act of smoking a cigar explained that she had promised her mother never to smoke a cigarette. He took himself in hand. The thing was serious and must be stopped. Evidently the word "sacrifice" had applied not to the loss of an income of fifty thousand dollars but to the resignation of the less tangible asset—reputation. Miss Southgate was already rolling out a magnificent invective. Doris Helen did not attempt to interrupt her. She sat still, with her eyes raised with interested surprise to Antonia's angry face. Only once she spoke.