"I am glad you remember me, sir," he said gravely, "and exceedingly glad that you are willing Joy should—"
Joy gave a long shudder of relief, and relaxed all over. He was not going to put her to shame there before all of them. She would have time to explain. She would not have her visit, but that, even, seemed a small thing beside the dreadful danger she had just escaped. She could tell him when they were alone.
Grandmother was coming forward now, to speak to him, where he stood, straight and dignified and handsome, with the little girl still on one arm.
"You are my old friend Grace Carpenter's son, as I was just telling Mr. Havenith. Edith Carpenter's nephew.... I—I am glad you are a friend's son," Grandmother finished tremulously.
John set Angela down and took Grandmother's hand, saying something to her gently—Joy never knew what. She had stood enough.
Phyllis felt Joy's hand pull out of hers. The inn-cottages were all built alike, so Joy knew perfectly well how to bolt through the front door, through the living-room to the back door and away. Viola, mending a little sock, caught a glimpse of flying skirts and flying braids.
"Them red-haired folks certainly is tempestuous, but they's gitters," she remarked to herself philosophically, and went on with her mending.
Outside, Phyllis looked at Allan and Allan looked at Phyllis. There didn't seem much to say about it. At last Allan spoke, in a way that he and Phyllis agreed afterwards was painfully inadequate, but was all he could think of to say.
"Ah—would you like to put away your suitcase, old man?" he inquired. "You must be tired of—of seeing it there."
Phyllis gurgled under her breath, but every one else was deadly serious. Nobody seemed to see anything funny about the offer.