CHAPTER VI. STRAIGHT QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS
Colonel McIntyre, with an angry gesture, threw down the newspaper he had been reading.
“Do you mean to say, Helen, that you decline to go to the supper to-night on account of the death of Jimmie 'Turnbull?” he asked.
“Yes, father.”
McIntyre flushed a dark red; he was not accustomed to scenes with either of his daughters, and here was Helen flouting his authority and Barbara backing her up.
“It is quite time this pretense is dropped,” he remarked stiffly. “You were not engaged to Jimmie—wait,” as she attempted to interrupt him. “You told me the night of the burglary that he was nothing to you.'”
“I was mistaken,” Helen's voice shook, she was very near to tears. “When I saw Jimmie lying there, dead”—she faltered, and her shoulders drooped forlornly—“the world stopped for me.”
“Hysterical nonsense!” McIntyre was careful to avoid Barbara's eyes; her indignant snort had been indicative of her feelings. “Keep to your room, Helen, until you regain some common sense. It is as well our friends should not see you in your present frame of mind.”
Helen regarded her father under lowered lids. “Very well,” she said submissively and walked toward the door; on reaching it she paused, and spoke over her shoulder. “Don't try me too far, father.”