Solomon turned a weary eye in her direction. He looked old, very old.
“Breakfast!” he repeated feebly. “Don't talk about breakfast to me! I'll never eat again in this world.”
Thankful pitied him; she could not help it.
“Oh, yes, you will,” she said, heartily. “Just try one of those clam fritters of Imogene's and you'll eat a whole lot. If you don't you'll be the first one.”
He shook his head. “Thankful,” he said, slowly, “I—I want to talk to you. I've got to talk to you—alone.”
“Alone! Why, Emily's just the same as one of the family. There's no secrets between us, Solomon.”
“I don't care. I wan't to talk to you. It's you I've got to talk to.”
Thankful would have protested once more, but Emily put a hand on her arm.
“I'll go into the living-room with Georgie, Auntie,” she whispered. “Yes, I shall.”
She went and closed the door behind her. Thankful sat down in a chair, wondering what was coming next. Solomon did not look at her, but, after a moment, he spoke.