Richmond ignored. “Oh, you want to stay with Allie a few days? Why not take her down with you?... The fact is”—Richmond cleared his throat—“the place seems lonely without you.”
Beatrice’s glance fell. Her sensitive, upper lip moved nervously—the faintest tremor quickly controlled.
“My car’s at the door,” he went on, an old man’s fear-laden eagerness in his voice. “It’ll take us straight to the station.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be in time for that first express.”
Beatrice did not dare look at him. She said insistently: “You will say nothing more about my marrying Peter? You leave me free to marry whom I please?”
Richmond drew down his brows. Temper began to tug at the corners of his cruel mouth. Really, this insurgent child of his was exceeding the outermost limits of fond, paternal forbearance. “You’ve had time to think things over,” said he in a voice of restraint. “You’re a sensible girl at bottom. And I know you have decided to act sensibly.”
Beatrice rose. “Yes, I have,” said she.
“Then—come on,” said Richmond, though he knew perfectly well that was not what she meant.
“You read my note to mother?”
“I pay no attention to hysteria. I waited for your good sense to get a hearing.”
“I shall stay in New York,” she said gently. “I am of age. I intend to be free.”