“I would come. I was afraid we’d never get you back.” She was on the verge of tears.
“Well, well,” said Cheviot briskly, “it’s no use spilling milk.”
“No,” agreed the old man. “It might be worse. After all, the ship is going back in a week and I’ll make arrangements for you to live on board till then.”
Hildegarde withdrew her arm. She came and stood in front of the bowed old man. “You can’t mean that while I am here, I’m not to stay with you—or in my own tent near—”
“Your tent!” Mr. Mar lifted one hand, calling heaven to witness his offspring’s folly. “As to ‘near’ me, I’m sleeping in a ghastly lodging-house myself at the moment. We pay ten dollars a night for floor space. Spread a blanket on filthy boards, and try to get some rest in spite of drunken rows and vermin.”
“I should think even a tent in the bog was better than that.”
“Much. I’ve lent mine for a few nights to a miserable woman and her daughter, who’d slept a week on the beach. Like Hildegarde here, they ‘bought a tent!’ It’s on that steamer we passed. There are half a dozen ships that can’t get unloaded.”
“I don’t know that I like those other women living in your tent,” said Hildegarde, with frank envy.
“Some of us are arranging to get the daughter home.”
“Not the mother?”