Part 30 (1/2)

”Wallace is a good boy!”

”The less we say about Wallace in this matter the better. Why don't you go to him, mother? He must be very unhappy. He will want advice.

And there's Mr. Balcome--shouldn't you and he take all this up with Hattie's mother?”

”Wallace will tell Hattie. We can trust him. But I don't want you to act foolish. Is she going to bring that child to the Rectory?”

”To the home of the child's own father? Why not?”

”Yes! And you'll get attached to her!”

Sue did not guess at the real fear that lay behind her mother's words.

”But you _want_ me to, don't you? I'm attached to a hundred others there already. And you'll love Barbara, too.”

”There! You see?--Wherever a young one is concerned, you utterly forget your mother!”

”Why--why----” Sue put a helpless hand to her forehead. ”Forget you?

I don't see how the little one would make any difference----”

Farvel interrupted, opening the double door a few inches to look in.

”Miss Susan,--just a minute?”

”Can I help?” Without waiting for the protest to be expected from her mother, Sue hurried out.

Mrs. Milo stayed where she was, staring toward the back-parlor.

”O-o-o-oh! To the Rectory!” she stormed. ”It's abominable! I won't have it! Such an insult!--The creature!”

Someone entered from the hall--noiselessly. It was Tottie, wearing her best manners, and with a countenance from which, obviously, she had extracted, as it were, some of the rosy color worn at her earlier appearance. She had smoothed her bobbed red tresses, too, and a long motor veil of a lilac tinge made less obtrusive the decollete of the tea-gown.

”Young woman,” began Mrs. Milo, speaking low, and with an air of confidence calculated to flatter; ”this--this Miss Crosby;” (she gave a jerky nod of her bonnet to indicate the present whereabouts of that person) ”you've known her some time?”

A wise smile spread upon Miss St. Clair's derouged face. She dropped her lashes and lifted them again. ”Long,” she replied significantly, ”and _intimate_.”

The blue eyes danced. ”My daughter seems interested in her. And I have a mother's anxiety.”

Tottie was blessed with a sense of humor, but she conquered her desire to laugh. The daughter in question was a woman older than herself; under the circ.u.mstances, a ”mother's anxiety” was hardly deserving of sympathy. Nevertheless, the landlady answered in a voice that was deep with condolence. ”Oh, _I_ understand how y' feel,” she declared.

”We know very little about her. I wonder--can _you_--tell me--_something_.”

Tottie let her eyes fall--to the modish dress, with its touches of lace; to a pearl-and-amethyst brooch that held Mrs. Milo's collar; to the fresh gloves and the smart shoes. She recognized good taste even though she did not choose to subscribe to it; also, she recognized cost values. She looked up with a mysterious smile. ”Well,” she said slowly, ”I don't like to--knock anybody.”

”A-a-ah!” triumphed the elder woman; ”I thought so!--Now, you won't let me be imposed upon! Please! Quick!” A white glove was laid on a chiffon sleeve.

”s.h.!.+--Later! Later!” The landlady drew away, pointing toward the back-parlor warningly. The situation was to her taste. She seemed to be a part of one of those very scenes for which her soul yearned--melodramatic scenes such as she had witnessed across footlights, with her husky-voiced favorite in the princ.i.p.al role.

”I'll come back,” whispered Mrs. Milo.

”No. I'll 'phone you.” With measured tread, Tottie stalked to the double door, her eyes s.h.i.+fting, and one hand outstretched with spraddling fingers to indicate caution.

Mrs. Milo trotted after her. ”But I think I'd better come back.”

Tottie whirled. ”What's your 'phone number?”