“Yes; I know she would.”
“When could you do it?”
“Whenever you like.”
“Soon?”
“Yes; sooner perhaps than—” Barbara spoke absently, as if a new idea was taking possession of her mind—“sooner perhaps than you think.”
“And you say she’s breaking her heart?”
“A little more, and it will be broken.”
By the time Letty had been set down at the door in East Sixty-seventh Street the afternoon had grown chilly. In the back drawing-room Steptoe was on his knees lighting the fire. Letty came and stood behind him. Without preliminary of any kind she said, quietly:
“Steptoe, it’s got to end.”