This new promise weighed heavily on his conscience that afternoon when he went home; for Bonnie May, unusually radiant, was waiting for him at the door. “Mr. Baggot was here to-day,” she began. “He left his play. And he talked to me about it. He said you might keep it as long as you liked.” “All very kind of Mr. Baggot.” Baron thoughtfully disposed of his hat and cane. When he turned to the child again there was a little furrow between his eyes. “Bonnie May,” he began, “do you remember my telling you some time ago that Mr. and Mrs. Thornburg would be glad to have you visit them?” “Yes, I remember.” “They thought possibly you might have forgotten. They asked me to remind you.” “Thank you. And he’s made the prettiest copy of it, with red lines drawn under the words you don’t have to learn. Can’t we go up-stairs and see it? I put it in your room.” “Yes, we’ll go up-stairs.” He was irritated by her supreme indifference to the matter which he had tried to bring to her attention. He meant to have this thing out definitely. She rushed away in advance of him so impetuously that he paused and looked after her in amazement. The furrow disappeared and he was smiling. And then the whole strange situation struck him with renewed force. Was she really the daughter of Thornburg, and was he afraid to claim her? Or was there no connection at all between her and the manager, and did he, Baron, hold the trump-cards in that game which meant the permanent possession of her? If she were Thornburg’s, why shouldn’t Mrs. Thornburg frankly say to her husband: “I know everything--but I still want her”? It occurred to him that it might be his duty to suggest just that course to her. But old habits of restraint were too strong for him. After all, he didn’t know the Thornburgs very well. He scarcely knew Mrs. Thornburg at all. Moreover, “it was a very pretty quarrel as it stood.” He had been frank and aboveboard every step of the way. If others could not or would not be so, that was no concern of his. He went up into the attic, which was made golden by a flood of late afternoon sunlight. In truth he found himself in an atmosphere that was delightful in its warmth and aloofness and quietude. Bonnie May hurried toward him, the manuscript in her hands. She was trembling with eagerness. A foolish little creature in some respects, surely, thought Baron. He glanced at the title-page and turned half a dozen pages aimlessly. And when he glanced at Bonnie May he was amazed by her expression of wonder, of distress. “You don’t seem to be interested in it!” said she. “Not a great deal--just now. I’d have to get into it, you know. When I’ve more time. Besides,” he tossed the manuscript aside, “I’m deeply interested in something else just now.” She quickly evinced a pretty spirit of submission. In response to his gesture she sat down near the window, opposite him. “I’ve been thinking about you to-day. Seriously.” “I hope I haven’t been queering anything?”