“Wants to pay for it, I presume,” the old woman retorted shrewdly; “I’ve always said that Stephen Temple would offer to pay for his halo! Tell him not to try to pay Robert, Rose, it would hurt.”
Rose looked at her helplessly. “He’s written about it,” she said reluctantly; “I told him, but he would do it.”
Mrs. Allestree’s sensitive face colored almost as vividly as the girl’s and she stopped, her hand on Rose’s arm, and looked down thoughtfully. “It’s in your father’s writing, of course?” she said at last.
“Yes, he wrote this morning and posted it himself.”
The old woman drew a long breath. “I’m going to commit a felony, Rose,” she said, “I’m going to get that letter; Robert’s mail comes to the house, I see it first. I shall send the check back to your father myself.”
“I’m afraid he’ll be angry,” said Rose thoughtfully; “I didn’t know what to do; I was sure Robert didn’t want to—to be paid for it.”
“Paid for it!” Mrs. Allestree shook her head sadly; “my dear child, it has been a labor of love. You couldn’t ask Robert to take money for it.”
Rose was silent, she felt herself a mere puppet in Mrs. Allestree’s hands; the old woman was as shrewd and as skilful as the most worldly matchmaker in her gentle and affectionate way; besides she adored her son and, like most mothers, she was willing to offer up any sacrifice which seemed to her sufficiently worthy for immolation. There was a moment of embarrassment on Rose’s part, and she was glad to see the Wicklow White motor-car coming swiftly toward them. At the sight of the liveries Mrs. Allestree turned quickly and caught an indistinct view of a woman’s figure, a white chiffon hat and a feather boa.
“Why, it’s Margaret!” she exclaimed, half stopping to look back.
“No, it’s Mrs. Osborne,” Rose said quietly; “she’s taken off her half mourning.”