Bella dropped her book and sprang up. "Good night," she cried; "why, you're not going, Cousin Antony?"
And as the older woman had done she extended her hand. It was only a small child's hand, but the essential
was there. The same sex but with a different hand. It did not melt in Antony's; it lay, it clasped, lost in his big palm. He felt, nevertheless, the vital little grasp, its warmth and sweetness against his hand.
"Where are you going?"
Mr. Carew had passed out now that he had successfully eliminated from the mind of the guest any idea that hospitality was to be extended. Once more the little group were by themselves.
"There is the Buckingham Hotel," Mrs. Carew ventured. "It's an excellent hotel; we get croquettes from there when Gardiner's appetite flags. The children have their hair cut there as well."
Tired as Fairfax was, rebuffed as he was, he could not but be cheered by the bright look of the little girl who stood between him and her mother. She nodded at her cousin.
"Why, the Buckingham is six dollars a day," she said. "I asked the barber when he cut Gardiner's hair."
Fairfax smiled. "I reckon that is a little steep, Bella."
"It's too far away, anyhow, Cousin Antony, it's a mile; twenty blocks is a New York mile. There are the Whitcombs." And the child turned to the less capable woman.