Mother looked at me incredulously.
"Will you please tell me just what you mean, Grace?" she asked.
"I mean that I must get away—I've imagined that I ought to take some serious thought, weigh the matter well, so to speak—before I write to the Coburn-Colt Publishing Company. In other words, I have to decide."
"Decide?" mother repeated, her face filled with piteous amazement. "Decide?"
"Decide?" Guilford said, taking up the strain complainingly.
"If you'll excuse me!" I answered, starting toward the door, then turning with an effort at nonchalance, for their sakes, to wave them a little adieu. "Suppose you keep on playing 'Knowest thou the land where the citron-flower blooms,' Guilford—for I am filled with wanderlust right now, and this music will help out Uncle Lancelot's presentation of the matter considerably!"
"What?"
"I'm going to listen to the voices," I explained. "All day long grandfather and Uncle Lancelot have been busy making the fur fly in my conscience!"
Mother darted across the room and caught my hand.
"You don't mean to say that you have scruples—scruples—Grace Christie?"