Pete had promised to come that morning, and she hadn’t seen him yet.  She supposed he had come, and that, though she had been on the lookout for him, she had missed him.  She felt as if they were never going to see each other again.  When she found she was to be alone at luncheon with Farron, she thought of appealing to him, but was restrained by two considerations.  She was a kind person, and her mother had repeatedly impressed upon her how badly at present Mr. Farron supported any anxiety.  More important than this, however, was her belief that he would never work at cross-purposes with his wife.  What were she and Pete to do? she thought.  Mrs. Wayne would not take her in, her mother would not let Pete come to the house, and they had no money.

Both cups of soup left the table almost untasted.

“I’m sorry Mama has one of her headaches,” said Mathilde.

“Yes,” said Farron.  “You’d better take some of that chicken, Mathilde.  It’s very good.”

She did not notice that the piece he had taken on his own plate was untouched.

“I’m not hungry,” she answered.

“Anything wrong?”

She could not lie, and so she looked at him and smiled and answered: 

“Nothing, as Mama would say, to trouble an invalid with.”

She did not have a great success.  In fact, his brows showed a slight disposition to contract, and after a moment of silence he said: 

“Does your mother say that?”

“She’s always trying to protect you nowadays, Mr. Farron.”

“I saw your friend Pete Wayne this morning.”

“You saw—­” Surprise, excitement, alarm flooded her face with crimson.  “Oh, why did you see him?”

“I saw him by appointment.  He asked me to tell you—­only, I’m afraid, other things put it out of my head—­that he has accepted a job I offered him.”

“O Mr. Farron, what kind of job?”

“Well, the kind of job that would enable two self-denying young people to marry, I think.”

Not knowing how clearly all that she felt was written on her face Mathilde tried to put it all into words.

“How wonderful! how kind!  But my mother—­”

“I will arrange it with your mother.”

“Have you known all along?  Oh, why did you do this wonderful thing?”

“Because—­perhaps you won’t agree with me—­I have taken rather a fancy to this young man.  And I had other reasons.”

Mathilde took her stepfather’s hand as it lay upon the table.

“I’ve only just begun to understand you, Mr. Farron.  To understand, I mean, what Mama means when she says you are the strongest, wisest person—­”

He pretended to smile.

“When did your mother say that?”

“Oh, ages ago.”  She stopped, aware of a faint motion to withdraw on the part of the hand she held.  “I suppose you want to go to her.”

“No.  The sort of headache she has is better left alone, I think, though you might stop as you go up.”