"Gwenda, there must be something behind all this. You'd better tell me
straight out what's happened."
"Nothing has happened."
"You know what I mean. We've spoken about this before. Is there
anything between you and young Rowcliffe."
"Nothing. Nothing whatever of the sort you mean."
"You're sure there hasn't been"--he paused discreetly for his
word--"some misunderstanding?"
"Quite sure. There isn't anything to misunderstand. I'm going because
I want to go. There are too many of us at home."
"Too many of you--in the state your sister's in?"
"That's exactly why I'm going. I'm trying to tell you. Ally'll go on
being ill as long as there are three of us knocking about the house.
You'll find she'll buck up like anything when I'm gone. There's
nothing the matter with her, really."
"That may be your opinion. It isn't Rowcliffe's."
"I know it isn't. But it soon will be. It was your own idea a little
while ago."
"Ye--es; before this last attack, perhaps. D'you know what Rowcliffe
thinks of her?"
"Yes. But I know a lot more about Ally than he does. So do you."
"Well--"
They were sitting down to it now.
"But I can't afford to keep you if you go away."
"Of course you can't. You won't have to keep me. I'm going to keep
myself."
Again he stared. This was preposterous.
"It's all right, Papa. It's all settled."
"By whom?"
"By me."
"You've found something to do in London?"
"Not yet.
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