Mrs. Gifford’s reception of this blunt dismissal was characteristic. She went, but she fired a parting shot.
“The kitchen was where I was bound, so fur as that goes,” she observed, with dignity. “And I don’t need to be reminded to shut the door, neither. It ain’t me that leaves doors open in this house.”
Foster Townsend waited until a vigorous slam proved that his order had been obeyed. Then he turned to his visitor.
“Sit down,” he said, motioning toward a chair. “Better take off your things, hadn’t you?”
Reliance shook her head.
“I’ll sit down a minute,” she replied, “but I’ll keep my things on. I can’t stop very long. I must get back to the shop. I left Abbie workin’ on Jane Snow’s hat and mercy knows what she’ll do with it unless I’m there to watch her. And if that isn’t enough to make me uneasy the post office is. Millard is supposed to be attendin’ to that; ‘supposed’ is what I said.”
Townsend smiled appreciation of the sarcasm. He lowered himself into the easy-chair.
“Where is the girl?” he asked. “Why didn’t you bring her with you?”
“She is at home, getting her things together. At least I suppose she is, that is what I told her she had better do. She’ll be here to-morrow—to stay.”
Townsend’s big body relaxed against the leather cushions. His expression, however, did not change. He took pains that it did not do so. No one—least of all the astute Miss Clark—should guess the relief the blunt announcement gave him.