Partly as an assertion of his rights, partly because she looked so young and helpless, he stopped and kissed her.

“I’ll come and see you about half-past ten tomorrow morning,” he said very clearly, so that every one could hear.  Adelaide looked blank; she was thinking that on Pringle she could absolutely depend.  Wayne saw his mother and Lanley bow to each other, and the next moment he had contrived to get her out of the house.

Mathilde rushed away to her own room, and Adelaide and her father were left alone.  She turned to him with one of her rare caresses.

“Dear Papa,” she said, “what a comfort you are to me!  What should I do without you?  You’ll never desert me, will you?” And she put her head on his shoulder.  He patted her with an absent-minded rhythm, and then he said, as if he were answering some secret train of thought: 

“I don’t see what else I could have done.”

“You couldn’t have done anything else,” replied his daughter, still nestling against him.  “But Mrs. Baxter had frightened me with her account of your sentimental admiration for Mrs. Wayne, and I thought you might want to make yourself agreeable to her at the expense of my poor child.”

She felt his shoulder heave with a longer breath.

“I can’t imagine putting anything before Mathilde’s happiness,” he said, and after a pause he added:  “I really must go home.  Mrs. Baxter will think me a neglectful host.”

“Don’t you want to bring her to dine here to-night?  I’ll try and get some one to meet her.  Let me see.  She thinks Mr. Wilsey—­”

“Oh, I can’t stand Wilsey,” answered her father, crossly.

“Well, I’ll think of some one to sacrifice on the altar of your friendship.  I certainly don’t want to dine alone with Mathilde.  And, by the way, Papa, I haven’t mentioned any of this to Vincent.”

He thought it was admirable of her to bear her anxieties alone so as to spare her sick husband.

“Poor girl!” he said.  “You’ve had a tot of trouble lately.”

In the meantime Wayne and his mother walked slowly home.

“I suppose you’re furious at me, Pete,” she said.

“Not a bit,” he answered.  “For a moment, when I saw what you were going to say, I was terrified.  But no amount of tact would have made Mrs. Farron feel differently, and I think they might as well know what we really think and feel.  I was only sorry if it hurt Mathilde.”

“Oh dear, it’s so hard to be truthful!” exclaimed his mother.  He laughed, for he wished she sometimes found it harder; and she went on: 

“Poor little Mathilde!  You know I wouldn’t hurt her if I could help it.  It’s not her fault.  But what a terrible system it is, and how money does blind people!  They can’t see you at all as you are, and yet if you had fifty thousand dollars a year, they’d be more aware of your good points than I am.  They can’t see that you have resolution and charm and a sense of honor.  They don’t see the person, they just see the lack of income.”