“Perhaps you are right,” admitted Robert absently. “At all events I can be spared from the office just now better than at any other time, and I am going to go away.”
And go he did an hour later. Mrs. Hargrave and Elise came in presently to take Sunday night luncheon.
“Where is Robert?” asked Mrs. Hargrave, seeing that no place was set for him.
“Gone off for a vacation,” said his mother.
“Dear me, isn’t he well?” asked Mrs. Hargrave.
“Perfectly, but he just took one of his notions and went.”
“Anything—er—happened, do you suppose?” questioned Mrs. Hargrave. “Anything—er, you know. Misunderstanding?”
“Possibly,” answered Mrs. Horton. “That is what I suspect. But I don’t know anything.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, folding her fine old hands together. “It is too bad! Can’t something be done? Why, Robert is the finest boy in this world! He is just what I dream my son would have been if I had had one. Do you suppose one could say anything to the other person?”