“No,” I faltered. And then more firmly, “No; certainly not. I—I am much obliged to you, Mr. Colton, but—no.”
“All right. You know best. I'll take your offer and I will hand you the money at the bank to-morrow morning. Will that do?”
“Not at the bank, Mr. Colton. Send it over to the house, if you can conveniently.”
“I'll have it here before ten. My lawyer will draw up the papers and arrange for transfer of title in a few days. What? Going, are you? Good night. Oh—er—Paine, remember that my other offer, that of the place in my office, is open when you're ready to take it.”
I shook my head. I had turned to go, but now I turned back, feeling that, perhaps, I should apologize again for my rudeness. After all, he had been kind, very kind, and I had scarcely thanked him. So I turned back to say something, I hardly knew what.
My doing so was a mistake. The door behind me opened and a voice said reproachfully, “Father, are you still here? The doctor said . . . Oh, I beg pardon.”
I recognized the voice. Of all voices in the world I wished least to hear it just then. My back was toward the door and I kept it so. If she would only go! If she would only shut that door and go away!
I think she would have gone but her father called her.
“Mabel,” he cried, “Mabel, don't go. It's all right. Come in. Paine and I have finished our talk. Nothing more you wished to say, was there, Paine?”
“No,” said I. I was obliged to turn now; I could not get out of that room without doing it. So turn I did, and we faced each other.