"And old Madam Bartlett won't let him come to the house, and Nell
has to see him on the sly."
"Tut, tut, child! Where did you get that notion?" asked Mr. Martel,
peeling an orange with his little fingers gracefully extended. "Harold
Phipps is years older than Nellie. He is interested solely in her
professional career. He has a lovely, detached soul, as impersonal--What
is the matter, Rosalind?"
"Nothing--crumb went down wrong. What are _you_ laughing at, Quinby
Graham?"
"Another crumb," said Quin.
Between him and Rose there had sprung up a curious intimacy. All sorts of
little wireless messages flashed between them, and Rose always seemed to
know things without being told. She had discovered long ago that he was
in love with Eleanor, and, instead of scoffing at him or teasing him, she
did him the supreme favor of listening to him. Many a night, after the
rest of the family had gone to bed, they lingered on before the fire in
the shabby sitting-room, Rose invariably curled up in the sofa corner and
Quin stretched out on the floor with his head against her knees.
After his somewhat rigorous discipline at the Bartletts' it was like
slipping out of the harness to be back at the Martels'.
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