“He doesn’t trust _me_, then,” he declared, stubbornly. “He hates me, because I am a Cook. He was sending you to Europe to get you where I couldn’t see you. Well, I guessed that little trick right away and played a better one on him. I decided to go to Paris myself. He had not thought of that, I guess. It must have jolted him when you told him.” “Bob, I won’t listen to such things.” “And then, when you did tell him, he saw his little game was up and so he has made up his mind to keep you here. Well, all right, then he can keep me here, too. He isn’t the only one who can change their mind. I’d like to tell him so.” He strode to the hall door and stood there almost as if determined to follow Foster Townsend to his room and tell him there and then. She was silent for a moment. The things he had said were in exact confirmation of the suspicion voiced by Nabby Gifford and which she had not permitted herself to consider. “The sly old rat!” he muttered between his teeth. She caught her breath. “No!” she cried. “No, I don’t believe a word of it.... And even if it were true--which it isn’t--it mustn’t make any difference in your going. You must sail on the _Lavornia_ just as you planned.” He spoke over his shoulder. “I shan’t,” he vowed, determinedly. “I stay right here.” “No, you mustn’t do any such thing. I shan’t let you.” “You can’t stop me.... No, and he can’t either. The scheming old hypocrite!” She walked to the door now and opened it. “You had better go home,” she said. “I don’t care to hear you speak in this way any longer. When you are ready to talk and behave like a sensible person you may come back and perhaps I will listen to you. But not until you beg my pardon for saying such things about Uncle Foster.” He swung about to face her. “But, Esther,” he cried, “you know they are true.” “I know you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying them, for calling him a hypocrite and all the rest.” “Well, what else is he? Making believe to you that--” “Stop! Will you go now, please?” “Of course I shan’t! I have only just come. Esther, dear, I am sorry if I said more than I should. I am mad clear through. Oh, we must not quarrel because--because he--” “_Will_ you stop talking about him? And will you go this minute?” He jammed his hands into his pockets. His face was flushed and hers white, but the fire in his eyes was dying. He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away. “Do you really want me to go--now?” he asked, incredulously. “You can’t mean it, dear.” “I do mean it. I think it is very much better that you should. You have said enough to-night, more than enough. I don’t want to hear more and I don’t feel like talking, myself. Please go.” He hesitated, then he surrendered.