“I don’t blame you for your doubts,” he answered. “But at such moments as these, who are the strangers? I would help an old man who was bruised by the roadside; why not an old man who lies bruised in his bed?”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Barnes smiled.
“Ask your cook. I’m the son of the Acme Manufacturing Co.”
The aunt for a moment doubted his sanity.
“Also,” he added, “I paint water-colors—some of them good, some of them indifferent, all of them as well done as I know how to make them.”
“And you came here?” stammered Aunt Philomela, still confused.
“To escape New York. Also for a bit of walking trip to make sketches. For what else—God knows. Perhaps for this.”
Aunt Philomela studied him shrewdly and in spite of herself his mouth started a twinkle in her eyes.
“The whole idea,” she declared, “is absurd.”