"Yes," he answered, "I have written such letters once or twice in my life."
Pauline stooped to straighten out the hearth rug. "Father," she said abruptly; "I have been writing to Uncle Paul." She drew a sharp breath of relief.
"You have been writing to your Uncle Paul! About what, Pauline?"
And Pauline told him. When she had finished, Mr. Shaw sat for some moments without speaking, his eyes on the fire.
"It didn't seem very—wrong, at the time," Pauline ventured. "I had to do something for Hilary."
"Why did you not consult your mother, or myself, before taking such a step, Pauline?"
"I was afraid—if I did—that you would—forbid it; and I was so anxious to do something. It's nearly a month now since Dr. Brice said Hilary must have a change. We used to have such good times together—Hilary and I—but we never have fun anymore—she doesn't care about anything; and to-day it seemed as if I couldn't bear it any longer, so I wrote. I—I am sorry, if you're displeased with me, father, and yet, if Uncle Paul writes back favorably, I'm afraid I can't help being glad I wrote."
Mr. Shaw rose, lighting the low reading-lamp, standing on the study table. "You are frank enough after the event, at least, Pauline. To be equally so, I am displeased; displeased and exceedingly annoyed. However, we will let the matter rest where it is until you have heard from your uncle, I should advise your saying nothing to your sisters until his reply comes. I am afraid you will find it disappointing."
Pauline flushed. "I never intended telling Hilary anything about it unless I had good news for her; as for Patience—"
Out in the hall again, with the study door closed behind her, Pauline stood a moment choking back a sudden lump in her throat. Would Uncle Paul treat her letter as a mere piece of school-girl impertinence, as father seemed to?