"Do you mean to say, Helen, that you decline to go to the supper
to-night on account of the death of Jimmie 'Turnbull?" he asked.
"Yes, father."
McIntyre flushed a dark red; he was not accustomed to scenes with
either of his daughters, and here was Helen flouting his authority
and Barbara backing her up.
"It is quite time this pretense is dropped," he remarked stiffly.
"You were not engaged to Jimmie - wait," as she attempted to
interrupt him. "You told me the night of the burglary that he was
nothing to you.'"
"I was mistaken," Helen's voice shook, she was very near to tears.
"When I saw Jimmie lying there, dead" - she faltered, and her
shoulders drooped forlornly -" the world stopped for me."
"Hysterical nonsense!" McIntyre was careful to avoid Barbara's eyes;
her indignant snort had been indicative of her feelings. "Keep to
your room, Helen, until you regain some common sense. It is as well
our friends should not see you in your present frame of mind."
Helen regarded her father under lowered lids. "Very well," she said
submissively and walked toward the door; on reaching it she paused,
and spoke over her shoulder.
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