“In the end Christianson and Björk didn’t fare much better than Mr. Mar, though I believe they got something. But the herder and his friends are millionaires.”
It was more than one of the company could bear. Mrs. Mar got up and left the room.
Cheviot met Hildegarde’s eyes. There was that in his face that gave her the sense of leaning on him in spirit—of being in close alliance with him.
“Poor, poor father!” she said, in a half whisper. “Does he take it dreadfully to heart?”
“Well, you can imagine it wasn’t an easy thing to bear.”
“No, but why isn’t he here—we’ll all help him to bear it.”
Cheviot looked at the door through which Mrs. Mar had disappeared. His eyes said plain as print, “Will she?”
“But father must come home!” Hildegarde broke in on the eloquent silence, as though upon some speech of Cheviot’s. “What is he thinking of—he doesn’t mean—”
Her agitation was so great she hardly noticed that Bella had finished putting the things away in the work-box, and was leaving the room. The moment she had shut the door, “He can’t face it,” said Cheviot.