“Oh, yes. Mr. Goldstein. He is Adèle’s—Mrs. Lumbard’s employer, I believe.”
“Yes, Miss Frink”—the hazel eyes searched the bright eyeglasses—“did Mrs. Lumbard ask you to sell the place?”
“Certainly not. Why do you ask such a question?”
“Because—I’m ashamed to say so, but I’ve thought so much about it. Mrs. Lumbard hates me. I can’t imagine why. I’ve met her on the street. Nobody ever looked at me the way she does.”
Miss Frink threw a quick glance over her shoulder at Hugh, who came back from the window, and stood near Millicent.
“This only came to light yesterday,” he said. “Of course, if you are selling the place, it is all right; but I talked with Grimshaw last night at dinner, and I was not satisfied with his replies, although he claimed to have your authority. If there was anything for you to look into, I thought it best for us to come in person; but, if everything is being done by your order, there is nothing for us to do but kiss you and leave you.”
“I suppose,” Millicent’s voice wavered, “I suppose it would be dreadful to ask you to change your mind, but Grandpa—I don’t know what he will do. He loves every little sprout, and—and there isn’t any other place—”
“Your grandfather seems to be your whole thought,” said Miss Frink. She was definitely frowning now, and her expression was severe.
“He is. I’d do anything—I’m doing something almost disgraceful now in begging you—” The voice stopped, and color came up in the pale cheeks.