McIntyre helped himself to poached eggs and bacon. “What did you do last night?”
“Went to bed early,” answered Barbara with brevity. “Helen wasn't feeling well.”
McIntyre's handsome face showed concern as he glanced across the table. “Have you sent for Dr. Stone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Helen—I—we”—Barbara stumbled in her speech. “We have taken an aversion to Dr. Stone.”
McIntyre set down his coffee cup with unwonted force, thereby spilling some of its contents.
“What!” he exclaimed in complete astonishment, and regarded her fixedly for a moment. His tolerant manner, which he frequently assumed toward Barbara, grew stern. “Dr. Stone is my personal friend, as well as our family physician—”
“And a cousin of Margaret Brewster,” put in Barbara mildly.
“Well, what of it?” trenchantly, aware that he had colored at mention of the widow's name. “Nothing,” Barbara's eyes opened innocently. “I only recalled the fact of his relationship as you enumerated his virtues.”