She went out and Ingram felt an intolerable longing to avoid Alva's eyes until she should have had a little time to think. Lassie shared the feeling; she, too, was greatly upset by Mrs. Ray's loquacity.
"Let us go out and walk until it's time to get the letters," the man suggested to the girl. His tone was curiously imperative, and she welcomed its command and jumped up quickly to fetch her wraps.
"Ronald," Alva said, gently, then, "she's very young."
He met her eyes squarely. "I know," he said; "but I'm not." She said no other word, but sat silent until they were gone. Mr. O'Neil returned to the bar at once, and in a minute—when Alva was alone—his wife came and sat opposite her. Alva was supporting her chin on her hands, trying to disentangle three urgent trains of thought.
"I'll be so glad when they're gone," Mrs. O'Neil said, with a sigh. "They've worn on me terribly, and now that I know what they are, it's awful. There's no possible chance of their being straight any more. They wear their heels off on the outside, and Mary Cody says Edward Griggs worked in a shoe store once, and knows for a fact that that's the sign of dishonesty."
"But have you ever seen their shoes?" Alva asked, with a slight smile.
"Why, I haven't put anything into the oven without having to take their heels out first, since they came."
"I'd forgotten." Alva sighed.
Mrs. O'Neil glanced at her quickly.
"You musn't take them so much to heart," she said, gently. "They could be good if they wanted to."