"When does your mother return?"
"To-morrow morning." She hesitated for a second; then, "Of course she will be furious," she said. "You won't be able to argue with her. No one can."
Rivington's eyes looked faintly quizzical.
"I don't propose to try," he said. "She is, as I well know, an adept in the gentle art of snubbing. And I am no match for her there. She has, moreover, a rooted objection to poor relations, for which I can hardly blame her—a prejudice which, however, I am pleased to note that you do not share."
He smiled at her with the words, and she flashed him a quick, answering smile, though her lips were quivering.
"I am not a bit like my mother," she said. "I was always dad's girl—while he lived. It was he who called me Chirpy. No one else ever did—but you."
"A great piece of presumption on my part," said Rivington.
"No. I like you to. It makes you seem like an old friend, which is what I need just now, more than anything."
"Quite so," said Rivington. "That qualifies me to advise, I suppose. I hope you won't be shocked at what I am going to suggest."
She met his eyes with complete confidence. "I shall do it whatever it is," she said.