"Yes; I'm well," he answered slowly. "Just worried—as you say. That's all. I thought an hour at home would help—home quiet, you know—home—"
There was a frightened widening of her gray eyes, and Shelby pulled himself together.
"But I can't lunch with you after all, little girl," he told her hurriedly. "I find I must go back. It seems your mother is—is out. Perhaps you know—"
He stopped. What did she know?
"I'm just in from a turn about Washington Park," explained the girl.
"The maple buds are all bursting. And you should see the crocuses."
"Your mother has been called out of town. She will be gone all night, probably—perhaps longer. You had best ask some friends in to stay with you. It will cheer us up. Now go down to your luncheon. You mustn't let me spoil it for you."
"But you're not well," she insisted.
"I am—I am indeed." Out of a window he caught sight of his wife's coupé. "I'll take that down town," he said.
They descended together. In the hall he warned again, "Don't let your luncheon spoil."
His foot on the carriage step, he questioned the coachman:—