“That ‘power of attorney’ is a very clever idea,” she remarked. “Who thought that all out?”
“I did,” he admitted. “I’m not sure if it will work——”
“Oh, it’ll work all right, young man; and you know it well enough. You’re just modest, that’s all.”
He asked her abruptly what she meant. She replied, “I’m Irish and I’m also Scotch; so let me give you a Scotch answer, by asking you what you mean. You’re not featherin’ a soft nest for yourself, perhaps?” She flung a hand towards the Wells’ house.
Richard looked out into the Lake, but made no answer at all. For the first time in many weeks Richard Richard became his old self, shy and silent. His ears glowed; he became uncomfortable and awkward, as self-conscious persons will; and the gates of his fluency closed. It had been pleasant, this new life of his, and his instinct told him it was good; but now another instinct warned him that it might not be wholly good. Phœbe’s cold interrogations had given him first a vague uneasiness and then alarm. Her mind was distinctly not friendly. He felt it, or rather, the sensitive antennæ of his mind caught the vibrations and warned him that he had been out of his shell quite long enough.
Perhaps they sat for ten minutes in tableau, she sewing and he gazing out into the Lake. The dog, “Count,” added to the picture by resting a rigid head on two outstretched paws.
“Smoke, if you want to,” Phœbe suggested finally.
“Thanks,” he said; but he did not smoke.
This man exhibited all the symptoms of guilt, but, somehow, he did not act the convincing villain. And yet had not everything pointed to the rôle? A casual visit to either Sampson’s or Cornwell’s moving-picture theatres would have convinced anyone: handsome man; no particular occupation; also no money; acquaintance made by accident; handsome girl; rich mother growing feeble and trusting. All the characters were here, including the clever Irish girl whose keen wit rescues the tottering family. “But, hang it all,” thought Phœbe, “why do I feel so mean about it? I ought to feel heroic (or is it heroinic?) and flushed with righteousness. But I don’t. I feel like a criminal myself.”
Other minutes passed by, but Richard seemed not to note them. “I wish I could talk,” he was saying to himself. “This infirmity of mine is like an epileptic fit where one knows all that is happening about him but can give no sign. And I thought I had got rid of it up in this fine country.” But he said not a word.