Just then, I heard a slight sound at my elbow. Pat, somehow, had wedged her pretty head under my arm, and was peering through the crack of the door. I had been so engrossed in the unhappy but thrilling scene outside, I hadn't noticed her presence. Apparently she had seen and heard everything. As the two chauffeurs, with a firm grip on the reporter, marched him off to the garage, she spoke. But what she said was inarticulate. It sounded to me like a heart-cry.
And then, suddenly, an idea came to me. Under her little harmless affectations and artificialities, Pat was very human. She had contacted very few young men outside her own exclusive social set; she knew very little of the outside world. Since childhood, she had been guarded and protected from the world's disillusions and ugliness, a protection which only great wealth like ours can give; and she still had the sweet and tender heart of a child.
Now, it was plain to me, she did not approve of the way Henry was treating the reporter. A fleeting glimpse of his youth and good looks, so unlike Henry's description, seemed to increase her interest in him. Oldish, fat, and almost bald—indeed! Pity for the handsome young stranger had touched her heart; and pity so often borders on that emotional danger zone: love.
Of all the unlooked for contingencies which could have arisen, this seemed to be about the worst. While I shared with Henry the honest indignation he felt at what he considered unjustifiable trickery and intrusion, yet I knew, deep down in me, I would side with Pat should she take the reporter's part. On this she seemed determined, judging from the expression on her face, cold and resolute, as Henry entered the hall, still snorting with anger.
In the clatter of voices that followed his return from the field of storm and conflict, the voice of Pat rose in steady crescendo.
"Uncle Henry! How could you be so inhuman?" she exclaimed. "You make us all feel—so cheap."
Jane stretched out a warning hand. "Now, darling!" she admonished; "this is not necessary."
"It is necessary!" replied Pat. "Uncle Henry has behaved shamefully, and should be scolded. I've half a mind to go to the garage myself, and apologize to this reporter for Uncle's cruel and unspeakable behavior."
Henry regarded her quizzically for a moment, then smiled. "This has nothing to do with you, my dear," he said, as Orkins relieved him of his rain-coat and hat. "Why, I acted in the reporter's best interests. I sent him to the garage to be dried out when I should have booted him off the premises."
"But he's wet—and miserable—and disappointed," said Pat, gravely.