"A-a-ah!" Wallace took out a handkerchief and wiped at his face. Then without looking at Clare, "Isn't there something I can do for you?"
"No. No, thank you. I've got relatives here with me. I'm all right." She took a chair by the table, and began to play with the mirror, by turns blowing on it, and polishing it against the folds of her dress.
He watched her in silence for a moment. It was plain that she was anxious to detain them until she felt certain that the child had left the block and was out of sight. He helped her plan. Standing between them, Balcome vaguely sensed that they had an understanding and resented it. His under lip pushed out belligerently.
"I wish you'd let me know if there is anything," said the younger man, his tone conventionally polite.
"Yes. I'll—I'll write." She controlled a sarcastic smile.
"In care of the Rectory," he directed. "Will you? I want to help you in any way I can. I mean it."
Now Clare rose. "Good-by," she said pleasantly. "I'm sorry I rushed out the way I did today. But—you understand." She extended a hand.
"Of course," he answered, scarcely touching the tips of her fingers.
"Yes."
"I wish you the best of luck." She bowed, and again to Balcome.
Balcome returned the bow sulkily. And turning his back as if to leave, gave a quick glance round in time to see her make the other a warning sign.