“Because you must delay your argument?”
“No. Because we can’t have it in the open air. The Saint Foye Road must be changed for the parlor.”
“Can you do it there?”
“Why not? It is always empty, in the afternoon.”
“I didn’t mean that. But will there be room for you there?” Nancy questioned, with lazy impertinence. “I have always noticed that a man needs to gesticulate a great deal, whenever he is arguing for a lost cause.”
Brock laughed, as he patted his side pocket.
“Don’t be too sure it is lost. You haven’t seen my documents yet. Can you be ready, directly after dinner?”
“As soon as I see my father off. Else he would be sure to forget his goloshes and neglect to open his umbrella. A father is a great responsibility; isn’t it, daddy?” she added, with a little pat on the gray tweed sleeve.
Nearly an hour later, Barth bounced into the room. By largesse wisely distributed, he had gained a good dinner, in spite of his tardiness. He had found Brock’s coat hanging on the rack where he had left his own; and experience had taught him where Brock, once inside The Maple Leaf, was generally to be found. The office was quite deserted; and, with unerring instinct, Barth betook himself in the direction of the parlor.
In the angle behind the half-shut door, at a table covered with maps and papers, Brock and Nancy sat side by side. They looked up in surprise, as Barth dashed into the room.