Colonel McIntyre transferred his regard from her to the butler. “You need not wait, Grimes.” He remained silent until the servant was safely in the pantry, and then addressed his daughter. “None of your tricks, Barbara,” he cautioned. “If Helen is ill enough to require medical attention, Dr. Stone is to be sent for, regardless of your sudden dislike to him, for which, by the way, you have given no cause.”
“Haven't I?” Barbara folded her napkin with neat exactness. “It's—it's intangible.”
“Pooh!” McIntyre gave a short laugh, as he pushed back his chair. “I'm going to see Helen. And Barbara,” stopping on his way to the door, “don't be a fool.”
Barbara rubbed the tiny mole under the lobe of her ear, a trick she had when absent-minded or in deep thought. “Helen,” she announced, unaware that she spoke loud, “shall have a physician, but it won't be—why, Grimes,” awakening to the servant's noiseless return. “You can take the breakfast dishes. Did Miss Helen eat anything?”
“Not very much, miss.” Grimes shook a troubled head. “But she done better than at dinner last night, so she's picking up, and don't you be worried over her,” with emphasis, as he sidled nearer. “Tell me, miss, is the colonel courtin' Mrs. Brewster?”
“Ask him,” she suggested and smiled at the consternation which spread over the butler's face.
“Me, miss!” he exclaimed in horror. “It would be as much as my place is worth; the colonel's that quick-tempered. Why, miss, just because I tidied up his desk and put his papers to rights he flew into a terrible passion.”
“When was that?”
“Early this morning, miss; and he so upset Thomas, miss, that he gave notice.”
“Oh, that's too bad.” Barbara liked the second man. “Perhaps father will reconsider and persuade him to stay.”