“You in there?”
“Yes—he’s gone some time.”
Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,” she said.
“Yes—it’s all right, Meg—Poor, poor creature—”
“Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later—Mr. W. much concerned, and slightly titillated.”
“Oh, I’ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr. Bast! he wanted to talk literature, and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily.”
“Well done,” said Margaret, kissing her, “but come into the drawing-room now, and don’t talk about him to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing.”
Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor—this hen at all events was fancy-free.
“He’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now for puppies.”
As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: