“Not just yet.” Marjorie only saw the bitter disappointment in the fine eyes regarding her so wistfully; she never caught the significance of his long-drawn sigh of relief. “I have some pride, Chichester. Let me first get clear of my debts, and then we’ll talk of marriage.”
“Won’t you let me help you with that chattel mortgage?” pleaded Barnard.
“No,” gently. “I shall write to some friends in New York—here comes our car, Chichester, do hurry.”
So intent were they on catching the car that neither noticed a well-dressed young woman watching them from a bench in Lafayette Square. Nurse Allen grew white to the lips and her pretty eyes glittered with a more powerful emotion than tears as she observed Barnard’s tender solicitude for Marjorie as he escorted her across the street.
“Still playing the old game,” she muttered, tossing a handful of peanuts to three park squirrels, and gathering up her bag and muff she turned her footsteps toward Admiral Lawrence’s house.
On their arrival at the Fordyce residence Barnard was ushered into the sunny library by the footman, while Marjorie hastily sought her room. Barnard found Janet and her brother waiting for him.
“I hope I’m not late,” he said, selecting a seat near Janet, who resumed work on the necktie she was crocheting.
“You are just on time,” remarked Duncan. “Mother is the tardy member of the household—and Miss Langdon.”
“Marjorie is usually prompt,” Janet gave a tug at her spool of silk; the work-basket overturned, and its contents scattered in all directions. “Oh, don’t trouble,” as the two men stooped to gather up the different articles.
“What’s this, Janet?” asked Duncan, picking up a heavy gold object which had rolled toward him. Barnard’s eyes dilated, and he shot a swift look at Janet.