“Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch, “but if you were, your opinion would be the same as mine.”
Mrs. McMurdoch’s glance became positively beseeching, but the physician ignored it. “As your father’s oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel called upon to remark that it isn’t usual for strangers to thrust their attentions upon a bereaved family.”
“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I understand that this is also your opinion, Mr. Harley?”
“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “it cannot fail to be.”
Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his wife. “I will speak of this later,” he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have spoken now.”
Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon’s cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to her side.
But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the motherly old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face. “I think you are all perfectly cruel and horrible,” she said in a choking voice, turned, and ran out.
A distant door banged.
“H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I’ve put my foot in it.”