"WELL, child! So here you are. All right?" asked the Rector. He clipped his sentences nervously, squared his shoulders, and avoided looking in his daughter's face.
She was conscious of relief, to see him alone on the platform. It might be cowardice; but she welcomed any delay in the more formidable encounter. Ever since her arrival at Dover, she had been picturing what the latter would be like; conjuring up a stately and offended "Rectorinn," and imagining conversations enough to fill a small volume.
"Daddy, it's awfully nice to be back. What an age I've been away! You are glad to have me?"
"Glad" was not the word; but Mr. Winton could seldom say what he felt. He grunted an uncouth assent.
"Where's—she?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Brutt? She was bent on three days at Dover, and I was bent on getting home. So here I am."
"Had enough of her?"
"Quite!" expressively. "Oh, I must see to my luggage." She went swiftly along the platform, with smiling recognition of one well-known face after another, among guards and porters. "That is all done," she soon announced. "And now we can walk home, can't we?" She tucked a hand under her father's substantial arm. "What have you been working at lately, dad?"
Nothing more was needed to unloose her father's powers of speech. He could always talk on the subject of carpentry; and he quickened his stride, rolling characteristically from side to side, while Doris hung on as best she might, and he sketched his plans, past, present, and future, with enthusiasm.
She listened dreamily, finding it difficult to keep her attention fixed.