He looked a little askance at me, I thought, and seemed relieved to find Robert absent. I noted an attempt at ease in his loud voice and would-be hearty manner.
“Well, Maimie,” he said, kissing her, “how do you do? Quite well, eh? That was a pretty imperious sort of letter you sent me yesterday, I must say! But you see I have come! What has gone wrong with you?”
“I did not say anything had gone wrong, father.”
“Something, I supposed. Or there’s something you want done. Anyway, I have come. So now you had better ask your question,—the quicker the better.”
“Presently,” Maimie said. “You will sit down and have a cup of tea first, father.”
“I don’t want tea, child. I’m dreadfully hurried,—haven’t a moment to spare.”
“You have not been to see us for a long while,” I remarked to him.
“Couldn’t possibly,—I have had too much on my hands. And I knew Maimie was all right again. Not but what she looks thin yet—thinner than she ought to be. But I’ve been busy. And the old lady has been ill; and she expects any amount of attention.”
“That is why she has not written then,” I said, and I looked at him.
“That’s why,” he answered; and his eyes roved about anywhere rather than meet mine, or so I thought.