"Father, have you asked Gladys all about her book yet?" broke in Elfie, speaking very fast.
Gladys looked by no means grateful for the suggestion, and Mr. Romilly pursued, unheeding it—
"As I was saying—er—I hope that in a very short time our dear invalid will so benefit from the soft air of Italy—er—"
"It's going to be published very soon, isn't it, Gladys? You know, father, don't you?"
"Yes, my dear, I have heard some mention of it certainly,—er," said Mr. Romilly, with a polite glance at Gladys, and a troubled air at the interruption. "But I was just saying to Miss Conway—er—that I hope we may expect before long to hear—er—"
"It's not to be a big book. Gladys doesn't exactly know yet how big. Perhaps a shilling or two," continued Elfie, running the words one into another, while I could see every muscle in her face to be on the quiver. "And she wouldn't tell us, till—"
"Elfie, we know all that," said Nona. "Gladys has told us herself."
"And you keep on interrupting father," added Maggie. "He wants to say something."
"Elfie isn't well," interposed Thyrza bluntly, making an original remark for the first time. "Can't you see? If mother were here—"
The rest of Thyrza's sentence was lost. Elfie became in a moment the centre of attention. But for this, she might perhaps have fought through to the end of dinner successfully, long and slow as Glynde House dinners are. We had sat down at a few minutes after seven, and now it was a quarter-past eight.