“Well, who is she?” was Mrs. Baron’s abrupt, matter-of-fact question.
“I don’t know. That’s the plain truth. I’m thinking more about what she is—or what she seems to be.”
He described the incident in the theatre, and explained how he had been in fear of a panic. “I felt obliged to carry her out,” he concluded rather lamely.
“I quite see that. But that didn’t make you responsible for her in any way,” Mrs. Baron reminded him.
“Well now, governess, do be friendly. I’m not responsible for her—I know that. But you see, she appears to be alone in the world, except for a Miss Barry, an actress. I couldn’t find her. Of course she’ll be located to-morrow. That’s all there is to it. And let’s not be so awfully particular. There can’t be any harm in having the little thing in the house overnight. Honestly, don’t you think she is wonderful?”
Mrs. Baron was diligently nursing her wrath. “That isn’t the question,” she argued. “I dare say a good many unidentified children are wonderful. But that would scarcely justify us in turning our house into an orphan asylum.”
“Oh! An orphan asylum!” echoed Baron almost despairingly. “Look here, mother, it was just by chance that I ran across the little thing, and under the circumstances what was I going to do with her?”
“There were the police, at least.”
“Yes, I thought of that.”
He went to the window and stood with his back to her. For a full minute there was silence in the room, and then Baron spoke. He did not turn around.