He took up his stick and hat and left the house.
He found Mrs. Thornburg sadly changed since he had seen her last. She was unmistakably very ill, though the only symptoms revealed to Baron’s inexpert eye were a pathetic thinness and pallor and a profound lassitude.
She was alone, Thornburg having just gone out.
“It was good of you to come,” she said when Baron entered. She spoke as if she had been expecting him. And without circumlocution she continued: “I wanted to talk to you about the little girl. You haven’t let anybody have her, have you?”
“No,” replied Baron. Then he added lightly: “I think we’ve changed our minds about letting her go. It seems likely now that we’ll keep her with us indefinitely.”
He was glad that her glance rested upon her thin, clasped hands. He could note the effect of his statement with a steady scrutiny which need cause him no compunction.
To his surprise she seemed quite pleased. “It makes me glad to know that she is to be with nice people,” she said, lifting to him now a softly grateful glance. She explained: “You see, I’m sure I’m too ill to have her now, even if....” Her lips trembled and her eyes filled.
“But you’ll be better,” said Baron, reading her thought. Clearly she had despaired of ever being any better. “When you’re able to have her, she’ll be so happy to visit you. I mean Bonnie May. She’s a wonderfully sociable little creature. If she were invited to come to see you she would be delighted. Attentions like that—such as you would pay to grown people—have a wonderful effect upon her.”
“Yes.... And of course some day she will be coming here to stay.”