"Dear Boots," she said, "can't you help me a little? I really am
serious. I don't know what to do with the girl. Philip never comes near
us--once a week for an hour or two, which is nothing--and the child
misses him. There--the murder is out! Eileen misses him. Oh, she doesn't
say so--she doesn't hint it, or look it; but I know her; I know. She
misses him; she's lonely. And what to do about it I don't know, Boots, I
don't know."
Lansing had ceased laughing. He had been indulging in tea--a shy vice of
his which led him to haunt houses where that out-of-fashion beverage
might still be had. And now he sat, cup suspended, saucer held meekly
against his chest, gazing out at the pelting snow-flakes.
"Boots, dear," said Nina, who adored him, "tell me what to do. Tell me
what has gone amiss between my brother and Eileen. Something has. And
whatever it is, it began last autumn--that day when--you remember the
incident?"
Boots nodded.
"Well, it seemed to upset everybody, somehow.
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