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The following brief dialogue had taken place between him and Sally, before he began to kiss:
‘Crikey!’ he exclaimed, on her appearing suddenly in the doorway.
‘Pardon?’ said she, hesitating, and astonished to find a strange old gentleman where she had thought to find the Lukes.
‘It’s crikey all right,’ he said, staring. ‘Know who I am?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Sir, eh?’
He took a step forward and shut the door.
‘Father—that’s who I am. Yours. Father-in-law. Same thing as father, only better,’ said he. ‘What does one do to a father, eh? Kisses him. How do, daughter. Kiss me.’
Sally kissed him; or rather, having no reason to doubt that the old gentleman was what he said he was, docilely submitted while he kissed her, regarding his behaviour as merely another example of the inability of all Lukes to keep off pawings; and though she was mildly surprised at the gusto with which this one gave himself up to them, she was pleased to notice his happy face. If only everybody would be happy she wouldn’t mind anything. She hadn’t felt that the lady’s kisses were expressions of happiness, and Mr. Luke’s, when he started, made her think of a funeral that had got the bit between its teeth and couldn’t stop running away, more than of anything happy. Father-in-law, on the contrary, seemed as jolly as a sand-boy. And anyhow it was better than having to talk.
This was the way the situation arose in which Mrs. Luke found them.
‘Making friends with my new daughter,’ said Mr. Thorpe, not without confusion, on perceiving her standing looking on.
‘Quite,’ said Mrs. Luke, who sometimes talked like Jocelyn.