Lloyd Pryor read as far as that, and set his teeth. "Lloyd, my
friend," he said aloud, "it appears you have got to pay the piper."
Swearing quietly to himself he tore the letter into many small pieces,
and threw them into the fire. "Well," he said grimly, "I have never
repudiated yet, but I propose to claim my ninety days,--if I can't
squeeze out of it before that!" He sat a long time in his inner
office, thinking the thing over: if it had to be, if the piper was
inexorable, if he could not squeeze out, how should he safeguard
Alice? Of course, a girl of nineteen is bound to resent her father's
second marriage; her annoyance and little tempers Lloyd Pryor could
put up with, if only she need never know the truth. But how should the
truth be covered? They could all three go to Europe for a year. If
there was going to be any gossip--and really the chance of gossip was
rather remote; very few people had known anything about Frederick
Richie or his affairs, and Helena had absolutely no relatives,--but if
they went to Europe for a year, any nine days' wonder would have
subsided before they got back. As for the offensiveness of presenting
Helena to his daughter as a stepmother, Pryor winced, but admitted
with a cold impartiality, that she was not intrinsically
objectionable. It was only the idea which was unpleasant. In fact, if
things were not as they were, she would make an admirable stepmother--
"and she is good-looking still," he thought, with an effort to console
himself, But, of course, if he could squeeze out of it--And so his
answer to Helena's letter was a telegram to say he was coming to Old
Chester.
William King, driving down the hill in the October dusk, had a glimpse
of him as the stage pulled up at the gate of the Stuffed Animal House,
and the doctor's face grew dully red. He had not seen Helena since
that black, illuminating night; he had not seen Dr, Lavendar; he had
scarcely seen his own wife. He devoted himself to his patients, who,
it appeared, lived back among the hills. At any rate, he was away from
home from morning until night. William had many things to face in
those long drives out into the country, but the mean self-
consciousness that he had been fooled was not among them. A larger
matter than mortification held him in its solemn grip. On his way
home, in the chill October twilights, he usually stopped at Mr.
Benjamin Wright's. But he never drew rein at the green gate in the
hedge; as he was passing it the night that Pryor arrived, he had to
turn aside to let the stage draw up. A man clambered out, and in the
dull flash of the stage lanterns, William saw his face.