"I'll be very busy the next few months," he went on. "You must go away—to your mother—or abroad—anywhere, so that I shan't be tempted."
"I don't want to leave you!" she cried. "I want to stay and help you."
His smile was sardonic. "No! You shall go. I've an offer for this house, as it stands. In fact, I've sold it."
She stared wildly. "Joe!" she screamed.
"I've sold it," he repeated.
"To whom?"
His eyes shifted, and he flushed. "To Trafford," he replied, with a sullenness, a shamefacedness that would not have escaped her had she not been internally in such a commotion that nothing from the outside could impress her.
"But you couldn't get a tenth what the things are worth, selling that way."
"I got a good price," said he, his eyes averted. "Never mind what it was."
"Why, the Traffords would have no use for this house. They've got a palace."