At three o’clock that afternoon he entered Thornburg’s private office, after having taken the precaution of ascertaining (1st) that Thornburg had returned from luncheon in a fairly good humor, and (2d) that the manager was alone.
“You know I had a little talk with Mrs. Thornburg about Bonnie May last night,” he began, when Thornburg had thrust a chair toward him. He was assuming his most casual manner, primarily because it suited his present purpose, and also because he had not failed to note that Thornburg’s face had darkened slightly at sight of him.
“Yes, I know.” The manager glanced at his desk as if he were a very busy man.
“I felt the least bit—up a tree, as the fellow said, after I had talked to her,” continued Baron. “You know I want to—to be decent about things.”
“Of course,” agreed the manager, giving part of his attention to the papers which were strewn about his desk. “And I suppose the child is a good deal of a burden——”
He glanced up, and Baron wondered why a man shouldn’t be able to keep the light of triumph out of his eyes when he really tried to.
“Not at all!” he interrupted blandly.
“——or that you are sure she will be, when the novelty of having her about wears off.” He squared about sharply, with the air of a man who means to do something handsome. “I’m still ready to take her, if you decide that you’d like to give her up. Of course, I don’t know how soon I might change my mind. In case Mrs. Thornburg loses interest, I’d be through with the case, naturally.”
He turned to his desk again and examined a letter which came uppermost, frowning and pursing his lips as if he were giving it deep consideration.