Ellen's face did not relax. She had been sitting there for an hour, letting Mrs. Boyd's prattle pour over her like a rain, and thinking meanwhile her own bitter thoughts.
“I am, Willy. Only I didn't wait for my money and the bank's closed, and I came to borrow ten dollars, if you have it.”
That told him she was in trouble, but Mrs. Boyd, amiably hospitable and reveling in a fresh audience, showed no sign of departing.
“She says she's been living at the Cardews,” she put in, rocking valiantly. “I guess most any place would seem tame after that. I do hear, Miss Hart, that Mrs. Howard Cardew only wears her clothes once and then gives them away.”
She hitched the chair away from the fireplace, where it showed every indication of going up the chimney.
“I call that downright wasteful,” she offered.
Willy glanced at his watch, which had been his father's, and bore the inscription: “James Duncan Cameron, 1876” inside the case.
“Eleven o'clock,” he said sternly. “And me promising the doctor I'd have you in bed at ten sharp every night! Now off with you.”
“But, Willy—”
“—or I shall have to carry you,” he threatened. It was an old joke between them, and she rose, smiling, her thin face illuminated with the sense of being looked after.