'Who are you?' he asked curiously.
'Dad's little girl.'
'Father has no one but me,' said Bobby, with scarlet cheeks. 'I'm his own proper boy.'
'Yes,' said True meekly, 'I know you are. I don't think I'm quite a proper child, because my own father is dead, but dad is my next one, and mother's my very own. She doesn't belong to you at all, only to me.'
The relationship puzzled Bobby, and did not altogether please him. He had been so accustomed to think of himself and his father quite alone, that this little girl and her mother seemed quite unnecessary.
Conversation languished between them until Mr. Allonby had finished his note; then he left the room, found a messenger to take it at once, and then for the next ten minutes all was bustle and confusion getting ready for the return journey.
'If we are quick we shall get home by nine o'clock, True,' Mr. Allonby said as he wrapped a heavy rug round Bobby and tucked him in by his side in the car.
Five minutes afterwards they were going swiftly up the high-road. To Bobby it all seemed a dream. He grasped Nobbles tightly, but no fear assailed him. He had prepared himself too long for the possibility of going off with an unknown father to be much disturbed now.
And the strangeness of his journey fascinated him. True on one side of him, his father on the other—both strangers to him a few hours ago. They passed in the dusk the identical spot where he had stood confronting the bull that same afternoon. It seemed to be a year ago. True looked out as they passed, rather sleepily.
'That's where dad charged the bull! Oh, it was horrid! I thought we were going to be smashed up!'