"No, Ranny," she replied decisively. "Now it's my turn to be firm. I think I am right."
I should honestly have preferred, in spite of the conditions that surrounded me, to have married Gertrude then and there without further delay. We are neither of us young things full of ineffable inanities on the subject of romance and I experienced a sober desire for all possible finality in the midst of the jumbled and painful confusion into which Fate had seen fit to cast me. But Gertrude was obdurate.
Just as she was about to go there was a gentle tap on the door. Gertrude, whose hand was already on the knob, opened it. It was the girl Alicia.
With a downward quizzical glance Gertrude fixed the girl so that for a moment she stood fascinated, unable to detach her eyes from Gertrude's. She turned them in my direction finally and they were troubled and imploring.
"Please, Mr. Byrd," she said, "the children want to go for a walk now, instead of lessons. The sun is out. Can I take them?"
"Yes, yes," I said hastily. "By all means."
"Wait a minute," commanded Gertrude, smiling mechanically. "What is your name, child?"
"Alicia, ma'am."
"Alicia what?"
"Alicia Palmer," and the child's voice was tremulous with trepidation.