Maybe half a year, counting this summer. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. Will you answer me a question first?” “If I can,” Ennison said. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do.
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