Clearly he recalled Lynda’s reason. “If a father and a mother cannot conceive and carry out the needs of a nursery, they do not deserve one. I could never bring myself to intrude there.”
“What does this mean?” Truedale bent closer. The table had been painted white to serve as a floor for the dainty setting, and now, as he looked he saw stains—dark, tell-tale stains on the shining surface.
They were tear-stains; Lynda, who so joyously put her heart and soul in the ideals for other homes, had wept over the nursery of another woman’s child!
For some reason Truedale was that day particularly open to impression. As he sat with the toy-like emblems before him, the holiest and strongest things of life seized upon him with terrific meaning. He drew out his watch and saw that it was the dinner hour and the still house proved that the mistress was yet absent.
“There is only one person to whom she would go,” he murmured. “I’ll go to Betty’s and bring Lynda home.”
He made an explanation to Thomas that covered the situation.
“I found what the trouble was, Thomas,” he said. “It will be all right when we get back. But don’t keep dinner.”
He took a cab to Brace’s. He was too distraught to put himself on exhibition in a public conveyance. Brace sat in lonely but apparently contented state at the head of his table.
“Bully for you, old man,” he greeted. “You were never more welcome. I’ll have a plate put on for you at once. What’s the matter? You look—”
“Ken, where’s Betty?”