"I am going to stay here," she announced.
Both men stared at her. "How d'ye mean?" asked Flood weakly.
"The deuce you are!" cried Pendleton.
"Oh! With Mrs. Reeves!" Flood beamed, as if he had found an answer even while asking.
"Is that it? Why didn't you say so? Where is Eleanor, anyway?" Pendleton asked.
Rosamund laughed again. "I'm sure I don't know!" she said. "She is at Bluemont, and that's miles away, isn't it? I haven't even asked. No, Marshall, no, Mr. Flood, I am going to stay here, right here, here in this house, or this valley, or this mountain, but here, here as long as I like—forever, if I want to! That's what I mean—or part of it!"
It was evident that her laughter carried more conviction than any amount of seriousness would have done. Poor Flood's face got redder, and he suddenly, after a stare, turned on his heel, and walked rather slowly down the path to his car, standing beside it with his arms folded, looking across at the strip of woods, but seeing nothing. Pendleton, however, felt it incumbent upon him to remonstrate.
"Of course, we all know you can afford any whim you like, Rosamund," he said, in the tone of the old friend who dares, "but I think I ought to warn you that this sort of thing is not—not in the best of taste, you know! It is not done, really—in—in—among our sort, you know!"
Rosamund openly showed her amusement. "That is undoubtedly true, my dear Marshall," she said, "but this time it is going to be done! I am going to do it! You think it is a freak, and I'm sure I can say it isn't, because I don't in the least know what it is!"
"I think you're mad. If I had not been an unwilling observer of the accident, I should believe it was you had got concussion, and not the infant."