“No, I guess I can't wait,” said the old man. “It wouldn't do any good for us to meet now.”
“Do you think he coaxed me away? He didn't. He took pity on me,—he forgave me. And I didn't mean to deceive you when I left home, father. But I couldn't help trying to see Bartley again.”
“I believe you, Marcia. I understand. The thing had to be. Let me see your marriage certificate.”
She ran up to her room and fetched it.
Her father read it carefully. “Yes, that is all right,” he said, and returned it to her. He added, after an absent pause: “I have brought your things, Marcia. Your mother packed all she could think of.”
“How is mother?” asked Marcia, as if this had first reminded her of her mother.
“She is usually well,” replied her father.
“Won't you—won't you come up and see our room, father?” Marcia asked, after the interval following this feint of interest in her mother.
“No,” said the old man, rising restlessly from his chair, and buttoning at his coat, which was already buttoned. “I guess I sha'n't have time. I guess I must be going.”
Marcia put herself between him and the door. “Won't you let me tell you about it, father?”