“I am going. Let us get out of this house.”
Horace mechanically started to follow. Then he remembered that he had left his hat behind, and went back into the drawing-room where Mrs. Minster sat. The absence of deep emotion on her statuesque face momentarily restored his own presence of mind.
“You have heard your daughter?” he said, his head hanging in spite of himself, but his eyes keeping a strenuous scrutiny upon her face.
“Yes: I don’t know what has come over Kate, lately,” remarked Mrs. Minster; “she always was the most curious girl.”
“Curious, indeed!” He choked down the sneer which tempted him, and went on slowly: “You heard what she said—that I was dishonest, wicked. Where she has suddenly got this new view of me, doesn’t matter—at least, just at this moment. But I surely ought to ask if you—if you share it. Of course, if I haven’t your confidence, why, I must lay down everything.”
“Oh, mercy, no! You mustn’t think of it,” the lady said, with animation. “I’m sure I don’t know in the least what it all means. I never do know with my daughters. They get all sorts of crazy notions. It makes my head ache sometimes wondering what they will do next—Kate, especially. No, you mustn’t mind her. You really mustn’t.”
The young man’s manner had gradually taken on firmness, as if under a coat of ice. The glance which he still bent upon Mrs. Minster had a novel glitter in it now.
“Then I am to remain your lawyer, in spite of this, as if it hadn’t happened?”
“Why, bless me, yes! Why not? Girls will be girls, I suppose. At least, that is the saying. But—oh, by all means! You must see me through this dreadful trust business, though, as you say, it must all be better in the end than ever before.”
“Good-day, Mrs. Minster. I shall continue, then, to hold myself at your service.”