"I am going to stay. But you can't leave me like this! It's pouring rain and I haven't any umbrella, and if I get to the hotel and he isn't there, what shall I do? Why don't you help me, Quin? Why don't you stay with me till he comes?" "Sorry," said Quin, steeling his heart against those appealing eyes and praying for strength to be firm, "but I've got to be ready to go back to work to-morrow morning. Is it good-by?" He held out his hand, but she did not take it. Instead she clutched his sleeve. "What would _you_ do, Quin?" she asked. "Tell me honestly, not what you want me to do, or think I ought to do, but what would you do in my place?" In spite of his pretended haste, he stopped to consider the matter. "Well," he admitted frankly, "it would depend entirely on how much I trusted the fellow I'd promised to marry." "I _do_ trust him, and I'm going to marry him; but, you see, Rose's telegram, and his not being here, and all, have made me so unhappy! I know he can explain everything when I see him, only I don't know what to do now. Do you think I ought to go back?" "That's for you to decide." "But I tell you I can't decide. Somebody's always made up my mind for me, and now to have to decide this big thing all in a minute----" "All aboard for the Southwestern Limited!" came the voice through the megaphone. Eleanor glanced instinctively at her suit-case, then up at Quin. "Shall I take it?" he asked, with his heart in his throat; and then, when she did not say no, he seized it in one hand and her in the other. "We'd better run for it!" he said. "But, Quin--wait a minute--I won't go to grandmother's! You've got to protect me----" "You leave it to me!" he said, as he thrust her almost roughly through the crowd and rushed her toward the gate. CHAPTER 26 "So I am to understand that the young lady defies my authority and refuses point-blank to come home." "That's about what it comes to, I reckon." It was evening of that eventful Sunday when Eleanor and Quin had returned from Chicago. He and Madam Bartlett sat facing each other in the sepulchral library, where the green reading-light cast its sickly light on Lincoln and his Cabinet, on Andrew Jackson dying in the bosom of his family, on Madam savagely gripping the lions' heads on the arms of her mahogany chair. That her quarrel with Eleanor and the girl's subsequent flight had made the old lady suffer was evinced by the pinched look of her nostrils and the heavy, sagging lines about her mouth; but in her grim old eyes there was no sign of compromise. "Very well!" she said. "Let her stay at her precious Martels'. She will stand just about one week of their shiftlessness. I shan't send her a stitch of clothes or a cent of money. Maybe I can starve some sense into her."