“Better and better,” cried Beatrice. “First thing you know I’ll be trying to steal you back from Allie.”
Peter colored consciously. He said with a foolish attempt at the offhand: “Oh—I saw her—at lunch. She wants to come to see you, but don’t dare. Your father’s got her father right where he can put the screws on him.”
“She might have telephoned,” said Beatrice, and her tone even more than her look showed how Allie’s defection had hurt, how it was rankling.
Peter looked depressed. “Yes—I suppose she might,” conceded he. “But don’t be too hard on her, Beatrice. You know how afraid we all are of your father.”
“You’re here,” said Beatrice sententiously.
“Yes.” Peter reddened. “Hang it, I can’t fake with you. Fact is—well—while I hope I’d have come anyway, still, I’d not be so open about it, I’m afraid, if I hadn’t your father’s consent.”
“He told you to come!”
“He hasn’t given up,” said Peter with the air of a peddler undoing his pack. “Asked me if I knew where you were stopping. I said yes—that you told me. He asked where. I couldn’t think of any side step, so I let out the truth. Any harm in that?”
“Not the slightest. I’m not hiding from anybody.”
“Then he said—just as I was leaving him on the ferry this morning: ‘If you wish to call on my daughter and try to bring her to her right mind I’ve no objection.’”