Beatrice permitted a beatific expression bordering on fatuous folly to overspread her fair, young face. “Do you remember—down at Red Hill—the last time you were there—the biggest, grandest, handsomest man you ever saw——”
“The artist!” cried Allie in dismay. “Oh, dearest, I thought you were just flirting. And you are. You wouldn’t— Your mother’d never—never—consent. Isn’t he—poor?”
“How can you talk like that?” exclaimed Beatrice, with all the new convert’s energy in indignation.
“Well—one has got to live, you know,” urged Allie. “And if he’s poor—and your father doesn’t consent——”
Beatrice laughed curtly—she had many mannerisms that reminded one of her father. “I’m not married yet—nor engaged.”
“Have you talked with your father and mother?” inquired her worldly wise friend.
Miss Richmond again gave a sweetened and feminine version of her father’s sardonic laugh. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve broken with father.”
“Oh, Trixy!” exclaimed Allie in terror. “You can’t do that!”
“Oh, yes, I can. I have.” She beamed on her friend. “And I’ve come to ask you to give me shelter for a few days—till I can look about. Father wanted me to marry Peter. I refused. He insulted me. Here I am.”
Alicia kissed her with enthusiasm. “What a strong dear you are!” cried she. This remark seemed to her a wise and friendly—and discreet—compromise. It did not approve unfilial conduct. It did not encourage Beatrice to weaken her opposition to Hanky Vanderkief. It did not commit the Kinnears to anything whatsoever. “But you must dress for dinner. Of course I’ll give you another man. I’ll change my man to you and take Peter. It’s good to have you here. I must rush away to dress.”