"Why did he go home, sweetheart, so soon after our coming?" he inquired.
"Did he go home?" she queried, casually. "You know he was hardly fit to be out. Even heroes can't stand the loss of blood!"
"What did you do to him, child?" persisted Glenowen.
This questioning chafed on Barbara's raw and bleeding nerves.
"Robert made himself very disagreeable," she replied, crisply. "I showed that I was disappointed in him, and he seems to have got angry and gone home!"
"Disappointed in him!" exclaimed Glenowen. Then he hesitated, and went on: "Really, Barbara, are you quite human? Forgive me if I—"
Barbara faced him squarely, and he felt, though he could not see, the flood of tears pent up behind her shining eyes.
"Uncle Bob!" she whispered, in a tense voice, "if you are going to criticise, take me home right away. I can't stand one thing more!"
Glenowen knew her better than any one else ever could, and his displeasure melted as he caught signal of a distress which he did not understand. Yet he knew better than to be too sympathetic, having more than once experienced the perilous relaxing powers of sympathy.
"Well, well, sweetheart," he laughed, lightly, "forgive me. I've no doubt it would seem all right if I knew. And what does it matter to me about Bobby Gault, anyhow, so long as my little girl is happy?"