Mr. Addis was on his feet, shaking her hand vigorously. “I have,” he confessed. “But please don’t blame her. I think I haven’t set her a very good example.”
Flora turned to the child with a kind of forlorn fondness and made a characteristic movement, as if she were pushing escaping strands of hair into place. She appeared not to observe that Mr. Addis was still holding her hand. Then with evident decision she moved away from him.
“It won’t do,” she declared, meeting the visitor’s eyes. “It’s not the right way to do things.”
“I’ve been trying to think of the right way,” replied Mr. Addis with dignity.
“But doing things secretly ... I don’t believe anything is worth having unless you can have it honestly—even a friendship. You know how mother feels. And—and I can’t quarrel with her. I think a little injustice is better than quarrelling.” Her voice held a note of sadness, of discouragement.
Mr. Addis suddenly stood more erect. “Miss Flora, you’re right,” he said. “I mustn’t try to hide anything. I won’t.”
“Bonnie May,” said Flora, “will you please go and ask mother to come down?”
“That’s it,” agreed Mr. Addis. “The thing for me to do is to have a little talk with her.” And then they waited, without looking at each other, until Mrs. Baron descended the stairs and entered the room.
The poor old lady’s manner hardened the instant she appeared.
“Good evening, Mr. Addis,” she said in a tone of frank resentment. “I don’t believe we were expecting you.”