Two minutes later Bobby McGinnis himself stood tall and straight just inside the door.
“You sent for me?” he asked.
Margaret sprang to her feet. All the pent loneliness of the past weeks and months burst forth in a stinging whip of retort.
“Yes, I sent for you.” She paused, but the man did not speak, and in a moment she went on hurriedly, feverishly. “I always send for you—if I see you at all, and yet you know how hard I’m trying to help these people, and that you are the only one here that can help me.”
She paused again, and again the man was silent.
“Don’t you know what I’m trying to do?” she asked.
“Yes.” The lips closed firmly over the single word.
“Didn’t I ask you to help me? Didn’t I appoint us a committee of two to do the work?” Her voice shook, and her chin trembled like that of a grieved child.
“Yes.” Again that strained, almost harsh monosyllable.
Margaret made an impatient gesture.