“You are a close observer.” Helen completed her memorandum and laid it aside. “What became of father?”
“He went to a stag supper at the Willard,” chimed in Barbara, stopping her aimless walk about the library. “He said we were not to wait up for him.”
Helen pushed back her chair and rose with some abruptness.
“I am more tired than I realized,” she remarked and involuntarily stretched her weary muscles. “Come, Margaret,” laying a persuasive hand on the widow's shoulder. “Be a trump and rub my forehead with cologne as you used to do abroad when I had a headache. It always put me to sleep then; and, oh, how I long for sleep now!”
There was infinite pathos in her voice and Mrs. Brewster sprang up and threw her arm about her in ready sympathy.
“You poor darling!” she exclaimed. “Let me put you to bed; Mammy taught me the art of soothing frayed nerves. Come with us, Babs,” holding out her left hand to Barbara. But the latter, with a dexterous twist, slipped away from her touch.
“I must stay and straighten the library,” she announced.
Mrs. Brewster's delicate color had deepened. “It would be as well to open some of the doors,” she agreed coldly. “The library looks odd, not to say funereal,” she glanced down the spacious room and shivered ever so slightly. “Do, Babs, put out some of the lights; they are blinding.”
“Oh, I'll turn them all out”—Barbara sought the electric switch.
“But your father—”