“Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.”
He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had fallen. It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what the sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never loved him as she loved him now.
“Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to bed so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?”
“Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head.
“Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write Jane Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night, Esther. Good-night, Griffin.”
He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.
“Whew!” he exclaimed in evident relief. “That storm blew over quicker than I thought it would. The way he lit into me when I first came—and the queer way you both looked and acted when I walked into this room—made me wonder what had happened. What is up, Esther?”
She did not answer. His grin became a laugh.
“Did you hear him give me that dig about painting pictures to give away?” he asked. “And that other one about not being grasping as some one else in the family? That was a whack at grandfather and the lawsuit, of course. I thought I might be in for a row, but he was pleasant enough when he said good-night. I wonder—”
She surprised him then.