"Mr. Claughton, sir, please," said Mrs. Stirring, putting her head round the door.
"Bring him in," the Colonel answered with alacrity. Anything—even a Curate—to check his daughter's too affectionate solicitude!
Not the Mr. Claughton whom Dorothea had seen that afternoon, but another, entered,—Edred Claughton, of course. Dorothea would have preferred perhaps to see Mervyn. The two were very much alike in outer seeming; only here were a clerical coat, some additional gravity, and a hard-worked air. Nobody could have accused Mervyn of appearing overworked.
"I am returning your call very quickly," Mr. Claughton said, as he bowed and shook hands. "You were so good as to come this afternoon, when I was out."
"Yes—er—I—I'm very glad to see you," the Colonel said, speaking truthfully. "Pray sit down."
"We have been unfortunate hitherto, always missing one another. I thought I would come late, in the hope of finding you. The fact is, I am anxious to enlist Miss Tracy's services in the Parish."
"That's not at all in my daughter's line," declared the Colonel promptly.
"O father, I should like nothing better!"
Dorothea's eager tones were unmistakable.
"My dear, I couldn't possibly allow it," the Colonel said, with a disgust equally unmistakable. "I couldn't possibly consent! Girls of your age have no business in back slums."