Mrs. Thorstad felt and looked frustrated. She frowned at him, tight lips compressed. It was clear that she was neither pleased nor satisfied, that she wished to ferret further and the presence of her husband restrained her.
“The affair shall be probed,” she said somewhat absurdly.
“You mustn’t go out in this heat without a cool drink. Let me give you a glass of lemonade, won’t you?”
Helen rang the bell before Mrs. Thorstad could protest.
“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Flandon,” she subsided, stiffly.
Gage seized his opportunity.
“I’ll get you a real drink, Thorstad. Come out in the dining-room, won’t you?”
Mr. Thorstad, on the point of refusal, checked himself. Gage’s face was significant. He wanted to see him alone.
In the dining-room they were out of earshot. Gage poured two small glasses of whisky, his companion’s restraining hand dictating the amount. Even then Mr. Thorstad waited. He raised his glass perfunctorily but did not drink.
“I’m sorry for this mess, Thorstad. I don’t believe in taking notice of gossip ordinarily and you can’t help what a lot of small people think. But I saw something of your daughter in my office. I admired her character, her idealism immensely. I—am not involved in any way with her. I believe wherever she is that she is happy—and safe.”