I dreaded the meeting with Mrs. Claybourne. I feared her tears and wailings would have a depressing effect on Helen. Mrs. Claybourne was constitutionally unable to look upon any but the gloomiest side of things. What would happen now she had good cause for sorrow? I had already warned Mr. Claybourne that only cheerfulness was to be about Helen, hoping he would shield her from Mrs. Claybourne's worst. As I expected, we were met with tears, to which, however, Mr. Claybourne put a sudden and decided stop. It was possible to bully Mrs. Claybourne, I observed with satisfaction.
After luncheon Miss Brock took Helen upstairs for a rest. Mr. Claybourne and I faced one another, each equipped with one of the oily black cigars I remembered so well.
"Ted, I haven't tried to ask many questions with Helen around. What are our chances in this thing?"
"God! I wish I knew," I answered.
He smoked his cigar a while, staring out the window at the passersby on Myrtle Boulevard, much as he had done the first time I told him I loved his daughter.
"I don't need to ask if you and Helen have been happy," he went on, still gazing at the street. "I saw that in her eyes when you brought her off the boat."
"No two people could have been—happier," I murmured, my voice losing a little of its steadiness in spite of me.
"I know, Ted. Yes, I think I know—you see, she's all I have, too."
I could not reply; he was looking fixedly out the window.
"I can't come with you, Ted; my business ties me here. And I won't let Mrs. Claybourne go with you—I guess you know why. Don't spare expense—no matter what it is. Get the best specialist and the best of everything for her. If you run short, simply call on me." He fumbled in a pocket book. "Here is a draft on a Los Angeles Bank. Deposit it as a reserve fund."