He was absolutely astounded by her voice, by the kindly anxiety in her face.
“I just thought—” he began.
“Sit down!” said she. “Here! On the sofa. You do look so tired!”
“I—I am,” he admitted.
“And such a dear little girl!” said Mrs. Barron. “Such a dear little mite.”
She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible—he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.
“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”
“By George!” cried Ross.
For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind—
“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a—sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”—he paused a moment—“alone.”