The tears rose to Donelle's eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her surfaces.
"Jim," he said, "here's Miss Walden."
Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said:
"Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It's awfully good of you to spend hours making life a little less of a bore to a fellow."
Donelle tried her brand-new voice:
"One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to do it."
Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then:
"May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?"
"Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I'm a squatter. This is Mr. Law's place."
In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person.