“Downstairs,” said Minnie. “Just inside the door.”
She was standing there with a patience that touched his heart, a thin, tall, little girl-baby, with limpid grey eyes and straight black hair. One of those indescribably appealing children, filled with a divine pathos, a soul-stirring beauty. She was very quiet, too subdued, he thought, and too fragile. She took his hand willingly and toiled up the stairs at his side; she said nothing, except:
“Is Mother there?”
“Yes, pet,” he answered.
He knew at that instant that he was going to marry Minnie and take care of her and of this little creature too. He looked down upon its dark head with a new and poignant tenderness. He would be its father.
The child ran up to Minnie and stood beside her, looking up into her face calmly. And she looked back at it with an expression he had never conceived her capable of: rapturous, idolatrous passion. Her proud eyes questioned him, and he willingly responded.
“She is beautiful,” he said.
“I can’t help thinking so,” said Minnie.
Their business discussion amounted to very little. No one could discuss business with Minnie, anyway. It was an absurd idea.
Simply, Mr. Petersen asked if he couldn’t lend her a bit until she had “looked round,” and without demur Minnie accepted. In some intangible but perfectly plain way she suggested that she accepted only because of her little Sandra and that accordingly the acceptance was justified, if not sanctified. Mr. Petersen was ready to believe this.