Miss Van Gorder looked at her keenly. The young face seemed curiously worn and haggard in the clear afternoon light.
“You—you don’t really feel very well, do you, Dale?”
“Oh—it’s nothing. I feel all right—really.”
“I could send for Doctor Wells if—”
“Oh, heavens, no, Aunt Cornelia.” She managed a wan smile. “It isn’t as bad as all that. I’m just tired and the city was terribly hot and noisy and—” She stole a glance at her aunt from between lowered lids. “I got your gardener, by the way,” she said casually.
“Did you, dear? That’s splendid, though—but I’ll tell you about that later. Where did you get him?”
“That good agency, I can’t remember its name.” Dale’s hand moved restlessly over her eyes, as if remembering details were too great an effort. “But I’m sure he’ll be satisfactory. He’ll be out here this evening—he—he couldn’t get away before, I believe. What have you been doing all day, darling?”
Miss Cornelia hesitated. Now that Dale had returned she suddenly wanted very much to talk over the various odd happenings of the day with her—get the support of her youth and her common sense. Then that independence which was so firmly rooted a characteristic of hers restrained her. No use worrying the child unnecessarily; they all might have to worry enough before tomorrow morning.
She compromised. “We have had a domestic upheaval,” she said. “The cook and the housemaid have left—if you’d only waited till the next train you could have had the pleasure of their company into town.”
“Aunt Cornelia—how exciting! I’m so sorry! Why did they leave?”