“You needn’t. Leave that to me. Won’t you come in?”
She hesitated and then stepped in resolutely. She settled comfortably into a big chair on the opposite side of the library table.
“At first,” she said, “I thought only of Daddy and Aunt Philomela. But now that others are brought in, it doesn’t seem quite right to them, does it?”
“It seems inevitable and what is inevitable is right.”
She shook her head,
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. But at any rate what is inevitable is inevitable. There seems nothing to do now but make the best of it.”
She appeared genuinely worried. He tried to change the subject.
“I was writing home,” he explained.
“Then,” she declared, “I shouldn’t disturb you. When one is writing home one needs absolute quiet.”
He was still standing. She thought he had a very soldier-like appearance. He really looked more like a soldier than an artist as she had conceived artists. Even his blond mustache had an aggressive military air. It was trimmed so short and cut so straight that it challenged the suggestion that it was there merely for ornament.