This conclusion remained unshaken all the next forenoon. Esther did not come down for breakfast; she had a headache, so she told Nabby. Foster Townsend did not enjoy his breakfast, either. Later, when on his regular round of inspection, from the door of the stable he saw his niece leave the house and walk hurriedly off up the street. The suspicion that she might be going to meet Bob Griffin crossed his mind, but it was only momentary. He did not believe she was going there. He would have asked her where she was going, but his pride would not let him. He refused the impulse to call after her and tried to find satisfaction in berating Varunas for some trivial oversight in cleaning the stable. Dinner was another lonely meal for him. Esther had not returned and neither Nabby nor the maid knew where she was. She came in, however, at two and went straight to her room. He went out and, a short time later, he walked, without knocking, into the little sitting-room of the Clark cottage. Reliance was there and she did not appear greatly surprised to see him. “Hello, Foster,” she said. “So you’ve come, too, have you?” He grunted. “That confounded brother of yours isn’t on deck, is he?” he asked. “No, he’s tendin’ the office. Didn’t you see him? I saw you go in the shop door.” “I saw that Makepeace woman. She said you were in here.” “Yes, I’ve been in the house most of the day, except at mail time. I brought my work in here. I rather expected you might come.” “You did? Why?” “Oh, because--well, I understand it is squally weather up at your house just now.” He glanced at her. Then he sat down in the rocker and crossed his knees. “Esther’s been here, hasn’t she?” he growled. “So here is where she went. Well, I guessed as much.” “I should think you might. Yes, she was here and ate dinner here, what little she did eat. Foster, you can handle men but you are a dreadful poor hand with women--and always were.” He snorted. “Damn women!” he exclaimed, fervently. “Yes, that is what you do, I guess, and it isn’t good policy. Now, if you want to, you can tell me your side of all this rumpus. Esther has told me hers.” He told it. It was only when he told how and from where he had learned of the portrait painting that she interrupted. “Oh!” she said, nodding ominously. “Oh, Millard was responsible, was he? Humph!... Well, never mind; he and I will talk later on. Go ahead.” He described the scene in the parlor, keeping nothing back. Her lips were twitching when he finished. He looked up, caught the expression, and smiled, though rather ruefully. “It was a fool business, I guess,” he admitted; “but I was mad clear through. If it had been anybody else. What in the devil did she pick out old Cook’s grandson for? I won’t have her sparking around with him, not by a whole lot.”