If she were Thornburg’s, why shouldn’t Mrs. Thornburg frankly say to her husband: “I know everything—but I still want her”? It occurred to him that it might be his duty to suggest just that course to her. But old habits of restraint were too strong for him. After all, he didn’t know the Thornburgs very well. He scarcely knew Mrs. Thornburg at all.
Moreover, “it was a very pretty quarrel as it stood.” He had been frank and aboveboard every step of the way. If others could not or would not be so, that was no concern of his.
He went up into the attic, which was made golden by a flood of late afternoon sunlight. In truth he found himself in an atmosphere that was delightful in its warmth and aloofness and quietude.
Bonnie May hurried toward him, the manuscript in her hands. She was trembling with eagerness. A foolish little creature in some respects, surely, thought Baron.
He glanced at the title-page and turned half a dozen pages aimlessly. And when he glanced at Bonnie May he was amazed by her expression of wonder, of distress.
“You don’t seem to be interested in it!” said she.
“Not a great deal—just now. I’d have to get into it, you know. When I’ve more time. Besides,” he tossed the manuscript aside, “I’m deeply interested in something else just now.”
She quickly evinced a pretty spirit of submission. In response to his gesture she sat down near the window, opposite him.
“I’ve been thinking about you to-day. Seriously.”
“I hope I haven’t been queering anything?”