talking all the time, walked over to the doorway and blocked their
retreat. "You needn't think I'll do anything for you!" she said to her
niece; "I shall write to Mr. Houghton and tell him so. I shall tell him
he isn't any more disgusted with this business than I am. And you can
take Bingo with you!"

"I came to get him," Eleanor said, faintly.

"Come, Eleanor," Maurice said; and Mrs. Newbolt, puffing and talking,
had to make way for them. As they went out of the door she called,
angrily:

"Here! Stop! I want to give Bingo a chocolate drop!"

They didn't stop. In the street on the way to Bingo's new home, Eleanor,
holding her little dog in her arms, was blind with tears, but Maurice
effervesced into extravagant ridicule. His opinion of Mrs. Newbolt, her
parlor, her ponderosity, and her missing g's, exhausted his vocabulary
of opprobrious adjectives; but Eleanor was silent, just putting up a
furtive handkerchief to wipe her eyes. It was dark, and he drew her hand
through his arm and patted it.

"Don't worry, Star. Uncle Henry is white! She can write to him all she
wants to! I'm betting that we'll get an invitation to come right up to
Green Hill."

She said nothing, but he knew she was trembling. As they entered Mrs.
O'Brien's alley, they paused where it was dark enough, halfway between
gaslights, for a man to put his arm around his wife's waist and kiss
her. (Bingo growled.)