"I ought not to come here," he said, "after last night. Mrs.
Lightener… your daughter."
"I'll bet Hilda's worrying you more than her mother. Nonsense! They both got sense."
Certainly Mrs. Lightener had.
"Just got him out of the police station," her husband said as he led the uncomfortable Bonbright into her presence. "Been shut up all night…. Rioting—that's what he's been doing. Throwing stones at the cops."
Mrs. Lightener looked at Bonbright's pale, weary, worried face. "You let him be, Malcolm…. Never mind HIM," she said to the boy. "You just go right upstairs with him. A warm bath and breakfast are what you need. You don't look as if you'd slept a WINK."
"I haven't," he confessed.
When Bonbright emerged from the bath he found the motherly woman had sent out to the haberdashers for fresh shirt, collar, and tie. He donned them with the first surge of genuine gratefulness he had ever known. Of course he had said thank you prettily, and had thought he felt thanks…. Now he knew he had not.
"Guess you won't be afraid to face Hilda now," said Lightener, entering the room. "I notice a soiled collar is worn with a heap more misgiving than a soiled conscience…. Grapefruit, two soft-boiled eggs, toast, coffee…. Some prescription."
Hilda was in the library, and greeted him as though it were an ordinary occurrence to have a young man just out of the cell block as a breakfast guest. She did not refer to it, nor did her father at the moment. Bonbright was grateful again.
After breakfast the boy and girl were left alone in the library, briefly.