Baron looked at his watch twice as he climbed the stairs. Yes, the family had had time to return from church; but they had not done so. Mrs. Shepard was busy in the dining-room, but otherwise the house was unoccupied. Silence reigned in the upper regions.
Thomason, the houseman, was looking impatiently down from the upper landing; but Thomason didn’t count. He was probably hungry. Baron realized that he, too, was hungry.
He went into the cheerful sitting-room and looked down upon the street, and instantly his attitude changed.
There they came! And something was wrong. Oh, plainly, something was wrong.
Mrs. Baron’s head was held high; she was pale; her lips were compressed. There was nothing gracious in her carriage. She was marching.
By her side walked Flora, keeping step with difficulty. She appeared to be fighting off all realization of her mother’s state.
Mrs. Shepard was no longer present to lend her support to Bonnie May. The faithful servitor had come home immediately after Sunday-school to look after the dinner, and the child walked alone, behind her silent elders. Her whole being radiated defiance. She was apparently taking in every aspect of the street, but her casual bearing was obviously studied; the determined effort she was making was not to be concealed.
Baron hurried down-stairs so that he might meet them in the hall, and engineer a temporary dispersement. He was affecting a calm and leisurely demeanor when the door opened and Mrs. Baron, followed by the others, entered.
There was an ominous silence. Bonnie May caught sight of Baron and approached him with only a partial concealment of eagerness and hurry.
Mrs. Baron and Flora ascended the stairs: the former leading the way sternly; the latter moving upward with wan cheeks and bowed head.