“It is about Helen, is it not?” continued Emory, without waiting for Mr. Cartwright to question him.
“It is,” assented Uncle Peabody; “and your intuition makes my task the easier.”
“It is not intuition,” corrected Emory; “it is observation.”
“Well, call it what you like—the necessity is the same. Perhaps I have no right to discuss this matter with you, but I understand you have known Helen for a good while and pretty well.”
“So well that I would have married her if she had ever given me the chance,” asserted Emory, calmly.
“What do you make out of the case?”
“The girl is desperately unhappy.”
“She is. But how are we going to help her without making things a thousand times worse?”
Emory smoked his cigar meditatively. “I have been thinking of that, too,” he replied at length, “but with no more success, apparently, than yourself. It is a rather delicate matter.”
“There is no question about that.” Uncle Peabody spoke decisively. “And this is all the more reason why we should talk things over together. We are the only ones who can possibly straighten matters out, and I am not at all certain that we can accomplish anything.”