Bonbright was helping her to rid herself of her wraps, leading her to a sofa.

“Lie down,” he said, gently.  “You’re tired and bothered.  Just lie down and rest.”

“Are we going away?” she asked, presently.  “Have I got to get ready?”

He had promised her they would go away—­and had not seen her since that moment to tell her what had happened.  Hilda would not let him go to her that morning, so she was in ignorance of the change in his condition, of his break with his family, and of the fact that he was nothing but a boy with a job, dependent upon his wages.  Until this moment he had not thought how it might affect her; of her disappointment, of the fact that she might have expected and looked forward to the position he could give her as the wife of the heir apparent to the Foote dynasty. ...  It embarrassed him, shamed him as a boy might be shamed who was unable to buy for his girl a trinket she coveted at some country fair.  Now she must be told, and she was in no condition to bear disappointments.

“I promised you we should go away,” he said, haltingly, “but—­but I can’t manage it.  Things have happened. ...I’ve got to be at work in the morning.  Maybe I should have told you.  Maybe I should have come last night after it happened—­”

She opened her eyes, and at the expression of his face she sat up, alarmed.  It told her that no ordinary, small, casual mishap had befallen, but something vital, something which might affect him—­and her tremendously.

“What is it?” she asked.  “What has happened?”

“I went home last night,” he said, slowly.  “After—­you promised to marry me—­I went home to tell father. ...Mother was there.  There was a row—­but mother was worse than father.  She was—­rather bad.”

“Rather bad—­how, Bonbright?”

“She—­didn’t like my marrying you.  Of course we knew neither of them would like it, but I didn’t think anything like this would happen. ...You know father and I had a fuss the other day, and I left the office.  I had thought things over, and was going back.  It seemed as if I ought to go back—­as if that was the thing to do. ...  Well, mother said things that made it impossible.  I’m through with them for good.  The Family and the Ancestors can go hang.”  His voice grew angry as recollection of that scene presented itself.  “Mother said I shouldn’t marry you...”

“You—­you don’t mean you’re not going to—­to have anything to do with Bonbright Foote, Incorporated—­and all those thousands of men?”

“That’s it. ...I couldn’t do anything else.  I had to break with them.  Father was bad, but it was mother. ...She said she would never receive you or recognize you as my wife—­and that sort of thing—­and I left.  I’m never going back. ...  On your account I’m sorry.  I can’t give you so much, and I can’t do the things for you that I could. ...  We’ll be quite poor, but I’ve got a job.  Mr. Lightener gave me a job, and I’ve got to go to work in the morning.  That’s why we can’t go away. ...”