"Mr. Quentin certainly does not help matters, my dear. Still, if you
will enjoy the comment, the notoriety that he may be generous enough
to share with you, I can say no more. When you are ready to dismiss
him, you shall find me your ally." She was triumphant because she
had scored with sarcasm a point where reason must have fallen far
short

"I might tell Rudolf to throw him into the street," said Dorothy,
dolefully, "only I am quite positive Phil would refuse to be thrown
by less than three Rudolfs. But he is expecting you downstairs,
mamma. He asked for you."

"I cannot see him to-day. Tell him I shall be only too glad to see
him if he calls again," and there was a deep, unmistaken meaning in
the way she said it.

"You will not go down?" Dorothy's face flushed with something akin
to humiliation. After all, he did not deserve to be treated like a
dog.

"I am quite content upstairs," replied Mrs. Garrison, sweetly.

Dorothy turned from her mother without another word, and as she went
down the stairs there was rebellion in her soul; the fires of
resistance showed their first tiny tongues in the hot wave that
swept through her being. Quentin was stretched out comfortably in a
big chair, his back toward the stairs, his eyes upon the busy avenue
below. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and there
was a strange longing to pass her fingers over the thick dark hair.