“May I come in?” and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.
“Yes,” Joyce answered. “Come on in. This child says she is going away.”
“She isn’t!” and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket.
“Oh,” cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. “There’s a lot of things in there I want!”
“Can’t have ’em,” returned Barry, “unless you promise to put ’em back in that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us.”
“Barry, I must go away. I’ve—I’ve good reasons.”
Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her.
“Don’t speak of going away, Natalie. Don’t think of it. It would look like confession.”
“Have you heard about the will?” she asked, an awestruck note in her voice.
“Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us.”