Eliza stood with tight-clasped hands. It had been her fault that the bud of an acquaintance which might have been serviceable to her young friend had been blighted. They would tell Mrs. Fabian. She might visit her anger upon him. Eliza had never expected to feel gratitude toward one of the name, but her surprise was mingled with that sentiment when Kathleen now approached her, laying her smooth gloved hand on the rough clasped ones to say good-bye.
"You are going to Brewster's Island?" she asked. "It is a strange time of year."
"'Twas my home once," replied Eliza, tragedy of past and present so evident in her haggard face that a touch of pity stirred the girl's heart.
"I heard," said Kathleen, "that Mrs. Wright is staying there. How can she in the desolate winter?"
"I guess angels can live anywhere," responded Eliza. Her disturbed eyes met Kathleen's. "Miss Fabian," and her hard hand grasped the gloved one, "I don't care how cold the winter's goin' to be if only you'll promise me that I haven't done any harm to this boy here by my foolish talk. He ain't to blame if I seemed to—to speak about your mother. Don't, don't let her blame him for it. If I thought she would—if I thought I'd cut him off from friends—some day when I get to thinkin' about it up there on that hill I feel as if I should jump into the water and done with it."
"I'll explain," said Kathleen gently. "I hope you'll have a good winter. I'm glad you will have Mrs. Wright."
When the girl turned back, Edgar had gone; and the veil of perfunctoriness had fled from her host's eyes. He was looking at her as friend at friend.
He escorted her downstairs, and out through the alley to the waiting limousine within which, with elevated feet, Edgar was already solacing himself with a cigarette. At sight of the approaching pair, he leaped from the car, and received his sister with hauteur.
"Good-bye," said Phil composedly, when they were inside; "very good of you to come."
He closed the door, the machine started, and he returned to the stable, where Pat received him with a grin, still standing where he had risen when Kathleen passed through a minute ago. "I say, me bye," he said huskily, jerking his thumb in the direction of the stairway, "the auld one above there—she's yer second best girl, I'm thinkin'. That one," pointing to the street, "she do be a princess all roight. She turned them lamps on me when she first come in and asked for you, and I felt chape 'cause the stairs wasn't marble; but look out, me son, I know that breed. She'll make ye toe the mark."