She skirted the town and made her way toward the Custom House by a roundabout path. She passed a group of boys, and averted her head with a gesture of loathing. One boy, a gallant admirer, ran after her.
“Patience!” he cried, “wait a minute.” But Patience took to her heels and never paused until she reached the Custom House. The perplexed knight stood still and whistled.
“Well,” he exclaimed to his jeering comrades, “I always knew Patience Sparhawk was a crank, but this lets me out.”
Patience stood for a few moments on the rocks, then went slowly to the library and opened the door. Mr. Foord sat by the fire. He looked up with a smile.
“Ah, it’s you,” he said. “I’m very proud of you.—Why, what’s the matter?”
Patience, her eyes fixed on the floor, took a chair opposite him.
“What is it, Patience?”
She did not look up. She could not. Finally she moved her face from him and stared at the mantel.
“I’ve left home,” she said. “I’d like to stay here for a while.”
“Why, of course you can stay here. I’ll tell Lola to put a cot in her room. But what is the matter? Has your mother been drinking again?”