Mrs. March made a “tchck!” that would have recalled the most consequent of men from the most logical and coherent interpretation to the true intent of her words. He perceived his mistake, and said, resolutely: “Well, I won't do it. If she's refused him, that's the end of it; she needn't know anything about him, and she has no right to.”
“Now I think differently,” said Mrs. March, with an inductive air. “Of course she has to know about him, now.” She stopped, and March turned his head and looked expectantly at her. “He said he would not consider her answer final, but would hope to see her again and—She's afraid he may follow her—What are you looking at me so for?”
“Is he coming here?”
“Am I to blame if he is? He said he was going to write to her.”
March burst into a laugh. “Well, they haven't been beating about the bush! When I think how Miss Triscoe has been pursuing Burnamy from the first moment she set eyes on him, with the settled belief that she was running from him, and he imagines that he has been boldly following her, without the least hope from her, I can't help admiring the simple directness of these elders.”
“And if Kenby wants to talk with you, what will you say?” she cut in eagerly.
“I'll say I don't like the subject. What am I in Carlsbad for? I came for the cure, and I'm spending time and money on it. I might as well go and take my three cups of Felsenquelle on a full stomach as to listen to Kenby.”
“I know it's bad for you, and I wish we had never seen those people,” said Mrs. March. “I don't believe he'll want to talk with you; but if—”
“Is Mrs. Adding in this hotel? I'm not going to have them round in my bread-trough!”
“She isn't. She's at one of the hotels on the hill.”