If Barnes had tried to paint Eleanor as she looked that moment, he certainly would have had to dip his brush in damson preserves. She turned upon her aunt with a little cry.
“Aunty, you know, for father’s sake, we decided it was best not to say anything.”
“It’s high time,” she stormed back, “that some of us spoke out.”
Barnes leaned forward. He extended his hand to the girl.
“I congratulate—Carl,” he said.
She took his hand weakly and he rose. He stared about the room a second as though uncertain just what to do or say next. Aunt Philomela, who had assumed a very rigid pose, relaxed at the sight.
“I—I thought you suspected as much anyway,” she said.
“Why, yes—I did. Mr. Van Patten spoke of it—Carl spoke of it.”
The girl glanced up quickly.
“Carl said he had secured your consent,” she observed coolly.