The girl checked him with a spirit that was authoritative.
“Would you be good enough to wait a moment,” she requested, “until—until aunt goes upstairs and tells father?”
She turned to her aunt.
“Aunty,” she went on, “you must tell father that Joe refuses to come. You must tell him that Joe is brutal about it. You may tell him that there is no longer any need of his waiting.”
Aunt Philomela quailed.
“Where is the letter?” she demanded feebly.
“I tore it up. It wasn’t suitable for you to read.”
Barnes leaned forward towards the little form which had settled back wearily into the chair. His eyes were tender and sympathetic but there was nothing obtrusive in his attitude.
“Believe me,” he said gently, “I am sorry for you and would do what I can. If what I proposed sounds absurd at first, you see that the only other alternative is cruel. If we can make the end come peacefully and quietly, won’t it justify us somewhat?”
“But why should you, a stranger—” Aunt Philomela began suspiciously.