Mrs. Baron had a vision of that room that had been “specially fitted up” for the child, who was now away somewhere grieving because she had been refused a greatly coveted privilege. No doubt the Thornburg woman had spent whole weeks and no end of money in fitting up that room. And she thought with a sinking heart of the gloom of the mansion, and its threadbare aspects.
“Victor Baron,” she cried angrily, “I wish you would tell me just what agreement you made with that theatre man. I want to know where I stand.”
And Baron explained—or, rather, he failed to explain very clearly. The idea of “a sort of duel” not only failed to delight his auditors as it had delighted Thornburg, but they looked as if they considered it a type of criminal and unseemly folly.
“You see,” persisted Baron, “the Thornburgs are rich people. They may go so far as to adopt Bonnie May, if the thing works out satisfactorily. I know how that sounds, but we’ve got to think of—of her interests, as well as our own whims.”
“Whims!” This, witheringly, from Mrs. Baron.
“I think it was mostly whims at first, anyway.”
“You’re speaking for yourself—not for me.”
“And the Thornburgs are not bad people. I don’t see why they shouldn’t make her quite happy. I’m not at all sure we could do as much, if we undertook to keep her here constantly.”
“That,” said Mrs. Baron “is your mean way of reminding me of what happened just a little while ago!”
“Oh, no, mother! But she’s such a joyous little thing! I think she’ll like us all the better for seeing other people once in a while.”