“My dear boy,” interrupted Mrs. Mar, speaking in her most matter of fact tone, “sit down and tell us all about it.” She at all events was not too agitated to put her marker in the book before she closed it, and she took up her crochet.
Hildegarde was still standing there, but she had taken off the helmet and held it in her hand. “Are you—are you alone?” she asked.
“Yes, alone.”
“I suppose you’ve heard nothing of Mr. Mar?” said Mrs. Mar, who had never in her life been heard to refer to that gentleman in any more intimate fashion.
“Oh, yes, I have.” Cheviot sat down. Hildegarde still stood there. “I was with him between five and six months.”
“With father! Has he been to the Klondike, too?”
“No; but I’ve been to Golovin.”
“Your last letter, nine months ago, said you were coming by the next boat,” Mrs. Mar arraigned him.
“Yes, but I hadn’t heard from Hildegarde when I wrote that.”