“No, no,” cried Miss Merriman, quickly. “I don’t want anyone to guess anything, not even you. And you must remember that I’ve made no admissions, none whatever. I’ve taken care of this child, who has three fathers and no mother, purely out of good-nature. You understand?”
“I do.”
“But you’ll tell your friends, won’t you?—and especially Mr Southerley, who has been very kind”—and Miss Merriman looked down with a heightened colour—“that while I’m most grateful to them I feel that they are doing more than they ought. I don’t want their flowers; I don’t want their sweets. They’re spending a fortune in things of that sort just because they look upon me as a disinterested philanthropist, which I’m not, who has taken charge of this child from abstract motives of kindness—which I’ve not.”
Bayre looked at the sideboard indicated by the lady, and there he saw such a fine show of flowers, and of bon-bons in elegant wrappers, as would have set up a florist or confectioner in business in a small way.
He looked at her and smiled.
“They’ve been so very lavish,” he said, “that one wonders whether it was all gratitude, or something else, which prompted such profusion.”
Miss Merriman’s beautiful face puckered into lines of distress.
“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” admitted she, sadly. “I don’t mind with Mr Repton; he’s very nice, but he takes things lightly, doesn’t he? But Mr Southerley—”
Her voice faltered, and Bayre began to look rather grave.
“Shall I hint to him that there’s—an obstacle?” asked he, in a low voice.