"Not yet."
"Have you sent an answer saying you will come, on your own responsibility?"
Sally's slight figure drew itself up. "Why not? There's nothing else to do but go—and if there were, I wouldn't do it."
"It will take you at least twenty-four hours to get there."
"Yes. What has that to do with it?"
Jarvis's face looked as if he thought it had a good deal to do with it. He knew that, dress as quietly as she would—and Sally's dressing for the street meant always the plainest and simplest of attire—there was that about her which invariably attracted attention. He understood with just what a barrier of youthful reserve she would be likely to surround herself upon such a journey, but he understood also that barriers of reserve are not all the defences sometimes necessary for a girl who travels alone. For one moment he felt as if he must go along to take care of her, in the next that nothing could be more out of the question.
"I'm glad it's no farther, anyhow," he replied to Sally's quick question. "But hadn't you better let the boys know, before you go at your preparations? Max wouldn't be pleased at not being consulted, you know."
"Will you tell him, please? But first find out what train I must take, so you can be definite with him."
"But, Sally—really—shouldn't you ask old Maxy's consent?"
"Why?"