“And why?” Instantly Patsy sat bolt upright. “The Angel’s my child, of course—every bit as much as he is Warren’s—but why I shouldn’t slide down the banisters when I want to, just because I happen to have a baby—one might think it was my grandchild!” The disgust that tilted the small impudent nose made the stepmother bite her under lip hard. “Anyway, it’s all over now. I’ve left Warren for good, and when he gets back from Washington and finds nobody in the house he’ll realize that I’m sufficiently capable of action, though I can’t talk like a Macaulay essay. When he finds not only me but the Angel gone——” she listened suddenly—a faint cry came down from some place upstairs.
“I expect the house will seem still and—and strange.” The stepmother’s soft voice had a little ache in it as she listened too.
Patsy got up and walked to the window of the bright morning-room with a defiant shrug that was meant also to be quite indifferent. “He deserves it,” she defended. “Every bit of it. He behaved like a brute—a perfectly gentlemanly good-form Prince Albert brute; and when he has to go to Congress and give dinners and things without any wife, he’ll be sorry he was so abominable. He’ll remember that I could be grown-up and dignified when I want to. As for me, I can toddle on my own——”
“H’m?” The stepmother looked up inquiringly.
“Get along by myself, I mean, and take care of the Angel quite—quite as well as though I had a husband. I dare say Timothy won’t mind my staying here for a bit?” Patsy’s hauteur melted into an appealing wistfulness.
“Of course he won’t mind,” returned the stepmother, warmly. “He has some news——”
“And then,” went on Patsy, unheeding, “I can take—steps.” The vague importance of the decision seemed to reassure her; for she came back to her old place on the sofa and plumped down into the cushions almost cheerfully.
“I—before you take—er—steps,” suggested the stepmother, tentatively, “why not consult Timothy?”
“Consult Timothy?” Timothy’s sister faced about amazed. “W-what on earth could Timothy know about it—about leaving one’s husband? He’s the dearest boy in the world—a ripping good sport and all that—but, after all, Claire, he’s only a writer. He doesn’t know anything about things that happen.”
The stepmother sewed for a few minutes in silence. Then, “Nobody else knows that—that it’s happened yet, do they?” she asked, rather anxiously.