She did not look up this time. “I hope—I mean I guess I shall,” she faltered.
“Oh, you will! We’ll try to make you comfortable. Yes, indeed!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, we will! Now—er—let’s see: Is there anything particular you would like to do this afternoon? Like to go for a ride, perhaps?”
She was afraid to say no, but she could not force herself to say yes. If there was one thing more than another she wished to do, just then, it was to be alone, away from him and every one else, to be somewhere where she could cry as much as she liked. She had an inspiration.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, hesitatingly, “I think I should like to go to my room—the one I am going to have, just for a little while, I mean. If it will be all right?”
He accepted the suggestion heartily. He was thankful for it. It promised, for the time at least, relief from a situation as embarrassing to him as it evidently was to her.
“Why, yes, yes! of course!” he agreed. “You got your unpacking to do, haven’t you.... Nabby!... No, never mind. I’ll go up with you myself.”
She followed him through the stiff and stately front hall and up the long flight of stairs. In a wall niche at the landing near the top stood a huge vase containing a cluster of pampas grass, some of its plumes dyed a brilliant blue and the others red. The vase itself was thickly covered with colored pictures, figures of men and women in Chinese costume, of birds and flowers, of goodness knows what. The vase had been painted a glistening black and the pictures glued to its surface, in hit or miss fashion.
He saw her look at it as they passed.