Harvey came to his feet slowly, dizzily.
“I can’t believe it. She wouldn’t send the poor little thing up there all alone; no, sir! I—I wouldn’t let her do it.” He was pacing the floor. His forehead was moist.
“Miss Duluth appreciates one condition that you don’t seem able to grasp,” said Fairfax, bluntly. “She wants to keep the child as far removed from stage life and its environments as possible. She wants her to have every advantage, every opportunity to grow up entirely out of reach of the—er—influences which now threaten to surround her.”
Harvey stopped in front of him. “Is this what you came out here for, Mr. Fairfax? Did Nellie tell you to do this?”
“I will be perfectly frank with you. She asked me to come out and talk it over with you.” 83
“Why didn’t she come herself?”
“She evidently was afraid that you would overrule her in the matter.”
“I never overruled her in my life,” cried Harvey. “She isn’t afraid of me. There’s something else.”
“I can only say, sir, that she intends to put the child in the convent before Christmas. She goes on the road after the holidays,” said Fairfax, setting his huge jaw.
Harvey sat down suddenly, limp as a rag. His mouth filled with water—a cold, sickening moisture that rendered him speechless for a moment. He swallowed painfully. His eyes swept the little room as if in search of something to prove that this was the place for Phoebe—this quiet, happy little cottage of theirs.