“No, never; and whatever Miss Frink has heard she is welcome to remember. Speak, Hugh.” There was hysterical appeal in the last words.
“Then I can only repeat, Ally. Oh, don’t spoil our friendship!”
“This is enough,” said Miss Frink, coming forward, and looking Adèle straight in the eyes. “Why must an artist be a fool?”
“Sometimes others are fools,” cried Adèle, carried away by her thwarted passion. “The great Miss Frink is a dupe herself. Hugh has fooled you as he has fooled me.”
Miss Frink lifted her head. “Do you refer to the fact that Hugh Stanwood is Hugh Sinclair, my nephew? That is ancient history.” A moment of tense stillness while the women’s gaze still struck a mutual fire. “Will you kindly leave us, Adèle?”
With a murderous parting look the young woman obeyed. With only a moment’s hesitation, and without a glance at Hugh, she dashed from the room, knocking over a chair in her flight. Hugh’s gaze was fixed on Miss Frink. She turned deliberately and faced him. The look in her eyes, the softness of her lips, were unmistakable even if she had not extended a hand; but Hugh had no use for the hand. With one stride, he reached her, flung his arms around her and she was held fast in his big embrace. Some sealed door within her, whose firm fastening had already been weakened, opened gently. A flood of amazing happiness flowed through, and softly inundated her whole being.
From the hall came the chime of the Westminster clock. The four quarters rang; then through the stillness of the quiet house sounded the deep, deliberate strokes of the midnight hour.
Through it all they stood there. Miss Frink could feel the sobbing catch in the broad chest to which she was strained.
“I don’t deserve it,” she thought humbly. “The cross-grained, dominating, selfish, obstinate woman I have been, to be given this child of my old age!”
When the last tone died away and intense stillness reigned again, she spoke: