“Of course he didn't lie,” said Hephzy, promptly. I could have hugged her for saying it. “He was sick and—and sort of out of his head, poor man, and I don't doubt he made himself believe all sorts of things. Of course he didn't lie—to his own daughter. But why,” she added, quickly, before Frances could ask another question, “did you go back to those precious Cripps critters after you left Paris?”
Frances looked at me. “I thought it would please you,” she said, simply. “I knew you didn't want me to sing in public. Kent had said he would be happier if he knew I had given up that life and was among friends. And they—they had called themselves my friends. When I went back to them they welcomed me. Mr. Cripps called me his 'prodigal daughter,' and Mrs. Cripps prayed over me. It wasn't until I told them I had no 'inheritance,' except one of debt, that they began to show me what they really were. They wouldn't believe it. They said you were trying to defraud me. It was dreadful. I—I think I should have run away again if—if you had not come.”
“Well, we did come,” said Hephzy, cheerfully, “and I thank the good Lord for it. Now we won't talk any more about THAT.”
She left us alone soon afterward, going to my room—we were in hers, hers and Frances'—to unpack my trunk once more. She wouldn't hear of my unpacking it. When she was gone Frances turned to me.
“You—you haven't told her,” she faltered.
“No,” said I, “not yet. I wanted to speak with you first. I can't believe it is true. Or, if it is, that it is right. Oh, my dear, do you realize what you are doing? I am—I am ever so much older than you. I am not worthy of you. You could have made a so much better marriage.”
She looked at me. She was smiling, but there was a tiny wrinkle between her brows.
“Meaning,” she said, “I suppose, that I might have married Doctor Bayliss. I might perhaps marry him even yet, if I wished. I—I think he would have me, if I threw myself at his head.”
“Yes,” I admitted, grudgingly. “Yes, he loves you, Frances.”
“Kent, when we were there in Mayberry it seemed to me that my aunt and you were almost anxious that I should marry him. It seemed to me that you took every opportunity to throw me in his way; you refused my invitations for golf and tennis and suggested that I play with him instead. It used to annoy me. I resented it. I thought you were eager to get rid of me. I did not know then the truth about Father and—and the money. And I thought you hoped I might marry him and—and not trouble you any more. But I think I understand now. You—you did not care for me so much then. Was that it?”