I was angry and impatient, but when I tried to reason with the young lady I met a crushing refusal and a decided snub.
“I do not care,” said Little Frank, calmly and coldly, “to explain my reasons. I have them, and that is sufficient. I shall not go to—that town or that place.”
“But why?” I begged, restraining my desire to shake her.
“I have my reasons. You may go there, if you wish. That is your right. But I shall not. And before you go I shall insist upon a settlement of my claim.”
The “claim” could neither be settled nor discussed; the doctor's warning was no less insistent although his patient was steadily improving. I faced the alternative of my compliance or her nervous prostration and I chose the former. My desire to shake her remained.
So “Ash Clump” was given up. Hephzy and I speculated much concerning Little Frank's aversion to Leatherhead.
“It must be,” said Hephzy, “that she knows somebody there, or somethin' like that. That's likely, I suppose. You know we don't know much about her or what she's done since her father died, Hosy. I've tried to ask her but she won't tell. I wish we did know.”
“I don't,” I snarled. “I wish to heaven we had never known her at all.”
Hephzy sighed. “It IS awful hard for you,” she said. “And yet, if we had come to know her in another way you—we might have been glad. I—I think she could be as sweet as she is pretty to folks she didn't consider thieves—and Americans. She does hate Americans. That's her precious pa's doin's, I suppose likely.”
The next afternoon we saw the advertisement in the Standard. George, the waiter, brought two of the London dailies to our room each day. The advertisement read as follows: