“Oh—to be sure,” said Peter. “I suppose that has got something to do with it. But your obstinacy——”
“That’s it,” mocked the girl. “Obstinacy. Well, whatever my reason is, I’m leaving here by the next train.”
“But I was going by that,” objected Hanky. “I must get away from here.”
“Better stay on and let father see you’re not at all to blame,” advised she. “If we went up town together he’d be sure you were conspiring with me.”
“Oh, I’ll stay—I’ll stay,” cried Peter. “But where are you going, Beatrice?”
“Not to get any of my friends in trouble,” said she. “I’ll take Valentine and go to a hotel—to the Wolcott. Come and call. I’ll not tell father.”
“At a hotel!” Peter stared stupefied. “You don’t mean you’re leaving home—for good?”
“Wouldn’t you—in my place?”
“No. I’d be sensible and marry the man my father wished.”
Beatrice looked at him quizzically. “Hanky,” said she, “you ought to fall on your knees every day of your life and give thanks that you had the good luck to escape marrying me.”