"It's good to hear somebody," he said with cheerful greeting, smiling at her; then, as she closed the door carefully, "What've you to tell me, Margy?"
She had entered with her opening words prepared but, facing him, she forsook them and only said, "Father, why aren't you out on a day like this?"
"Oh, I've been out on the porch—like an inmate of an old soldier's home. But I draw the line on wheel chairs in public."
"Doesn't Doctor Grantham want you to drive yet?"
He shook his head, his eyes widening slightly as he watched her. "What is it, Margy?" he asked again.
"Did he see you to-day?" she replied.
"Grantham? No; he's promoted me to calls every other morning."
"Oh. Have you," she started and stopped, going hot and fiery red, and then she blurted, "have you had a full talk with him, father?"
"About?" he questioned, steadily, his eyes narrowing.
"Clearedge Street."
It was no bombshell at all; plainly this was what he had been expecting, and it brought him not the slightest visible agitation. On the contrary, it seemed to give him relief, and Marjorie was not prepared for that; she had keyed herself up to assuming the rôle of accuser of him—even beyond that of accuser to that of a disposer of his destiny. But instantly it was clear that he had no idea of permitting any such heroic reversal of position.
"Of course, Grantham told me you were at Clearedge Street," he replied, almost impatiently.
"Yes, father; I know everything."
