"My dear I know you were late, and everything was spoilt," said Colonel Tracy, waking up into a lively air of attention. "Turkey a mere rag—pudding broken to pieces! Never dined worse on Christmas Day. Next year, I'm sure I hope—"
Then he stopped, reading discomfort in his daughter's face, and asked, "Who did you say had slipped down?"
"It was on Christmas Day—a dear old lady, coming out of church. I helped her and that hindered me. I am afraid she would have been run over, if I had not been so near," added Dorothea, feeling it needful to explain.
"A policeman ought to have been at hand. Great shame!" said the Colonel, who, like most people, expected each policeman to parade ubiquitously the whole of his beat. "But it's done—can't be helped now. Old ladies have no business to cross streets alone. Where's the book I left here—what's its name?"
"Father, Mrs. Effingham has been to call on us."
"Eh! Then she wasn't seriously injured! Where is that book?" soliloquised the Colonel, peering about.
"No, and she said she would call. I should so like to know her. Somebody else has been too—'The Rev. E. Claughton!' See, father—he has left two cards. I don't know who Mr. Claughton is, but—"
"One o' the Curates, Miss," came in subdued tones from Mrs. Stirring in the doorway.
"What's the woman dawdling there for?" muttered Colonel Tracy, and at the sound of his growl Mrs. Stirring vanished. Colonel Tracy received the cards from Dorothea, and frowned over them.
"Claughton! Claughton! I don't know anybody of the name of Claughton. Must be a mistake, my dear. Just chuck it into the waste-paper basket."