Like most women, she loved that word. A million, even in fractions, is so glib, yet so unattainable.
The only person who was slightly dissatisfied with the progress of events was Pyne. Constance never appeared. She shared with Mrs. Sheppard the care of her mother. Enid, blithe and guileless in the public eye, did the house-keeping and represented the household.
Brand, too, save for a couple of visits to the hotel, remained invisible. He did not mention Mrs. Vansittart's name. He was pale and worn, a man at war with himself. The young Philadelphian—for Pyne's family home was in the Quaker City, though his estate lay principally in New York—was not pleased by the slight signs perceptible behind the screen of Brand's reserve.
"Constance takes after her father," he told himself. "There may be trouble about her mother. In the scurry I may get left. I must think this out."
At last came a day of warm sunshine, when Enid announced that the invalid, by the doctor's orders, was carried downstairs.
"Has Mr. Brand seen her yet?" asked Pyne.
"No," replied Enid, with a little cloud on her fair face. "He never mentions her. And how we wish he would. He is suffering, but keeps silent, and neither Constance nor I can make any suggestion."
"But what will be the outcome?"
"How can I tell? That night—after we left the hotel—he told us the story of his married life. It did not seem to be utterly impossible to straighten matters, but we knew nothing of her career during so many years. Was she married again? I have asked my father. He believes she was, but is not certain."
"Father" was Mr. Traill; Brand remained "dad." Thus did Enid solve the difficulty.