“I shall appreciate it. So will Rosamond.”
Corinne’s face had gone glum at the prospect of being left at home.
“Mamma!” she protested, “I want to be in it, too.”
“Come, Corinne,” solemnly, “and don’t argue.”
“I will remain to get the—er—real facts from Rosamond,” Howard said pointedly. She nodded.
“Of course. I’m sure you’ll hit upon some explanation that will do. You’re so intelligent. And I shall stand by you. Depend on me.”
“Mamma, mamma, why must I remain at home?” Corinne’s voice could be heard, still protesting, as the two women disappeared. After waiting till he heard them drive off, he walked resolutely to the stairway door and rapped on it smartly. He repeated the raps until a voice answered him, joyfully.
“Yes. In a moment, Prince Run-Away.”
Howard left the door open and returned to his former position. From the centre of the room, with one hand resting on the solid antique table, and the portrait of Hibbert Mearely behind him, he felt that he should be able to dominate the situation. He glanced at the painting and his own lip curled thinly. How he had secretly hated that old man, while openly doing him homage! Because of the trivial legacy, how he hated him still!
“You would marry a farmer’s daughter!” he thought. “Well, blood will tell. How the disgrace would have stung you! I’ve no love for you, you callous old skinflint, but I’m a Mearely; and I’ll save the family honour from being smeared by buttery fingers.”