And when, on the way over, she found that they were to pass Round Hill, she asked if she might stop. "I'm too tired to do any more, Daddy."
It was Meriweather who went up the steps with her and let her in with his key. "I don't like to think of you here alone," he said. "The chances are that the servants are off celebrating somewhere."
"I'm not afraid."
The dogs were in the hall, eager. "You'll have them," Meriweather said, "and you can telephone if you need me. I'd much rather stay with you—"
"It wouldn't do. You must go on with Sally."
He hesitated. "You mustn't be too upset by your father's manner."
He saw that her lips were quivering. "But I want him to love me."
"He does. But he can be hard at times with those he loves. And tonight, you know, he stands amid the wreck of his fortunes."
She stared at him. "Does it mean that?"
"I am afraid it does."
Her hand went up to her throat. "Oh, I should have known!"
"You couldn't, of course. But now that you do know, it will be easier for you to understand."
"Oh, yes. And I'll write a note for him to find when he comes in."
How dear she was in her quick repentance! Meriweather went back presently to Sally—Sally with her sparkles, her feather-lightness, Sally in silver tissue dancing with him to the despair of all the other men.
