Edgar was fairly swelling with emotion, one fourth of which was indignant defence of his mother, and three fourths joy at a clear case against the poverty-stricken artist who had dared set his own sacred person on a barrel and make him light an oil-stove.
Kathleen's scarlet face and lambent eyes spoke her distress. Phil, faced with condoning the slur on his kind hostess, was bewildered and uncertain.
Eliza saw it all and was the most disturbed of the four.
"Oh, Mr. Fabian, it's all my fault!" she exclaimed, looking appealingly at Edgar. "Please stay for tea."
"Really, you know," said Phil, "this is all a tempest in a tea-pot." He held up Aunt Mary's graceful old-colonial silver. "This one would be too big to hold it."
"Come, Kath," said Edgar, ignoring them. "Will you come with me or shall I wait for you in the car?"
Kathleen gave him an imploring look, but he was already moving to the door.
Phil took an impulsive step toward her. "Perhaps you will stay," he said, in supreme discomfort. She gave him a little smile. "No, I mustn't," she answered gently. "I'm sorry I hadn't finished looking at the sketches."
"May I bring them over to you?"
She shook her head. "I go back to school in the morning. Good-bye, I wish you all success."