“And,” continued Francis placidly, “father said you were to take us to town in the big car and we’ll all have dinner at the hotel and come back together. And he said to bring Aunt Pen. But you can’t now.”
“Run up to her room, Francis, and tell her I want to speak to her.”
“Aunt Pen has gone,” said the boy soberly.
“I don’t know. She kissed us good-bye and she gave me a letter to give to you at dinner time.”
“Give it to me now, Francis.”
“No; she said she trusted me, and I told her I wouldn’t give it to you till she said.”
“Come with me, Francis,” said Kurt, drawing him away from the other children. “I want to talk to you as man to man. We must always protect women, you know. Your Aunt Pen went away because she thought it best for her. It isn’t best. Your mother is her best friend, and if she had been here, she wouldn’t have let her go. If I had the letter, you see, I might be able to find where she had gone. Then I could ask her to come back.”
Francis looked up at him oddly and said in his little, old-man fashion:
“Maybe it would be best, but father says that a real man never breaks his word to a woman.”