Sandy, hearing voices, reconnoitred, with only his eyes above ground, to find out whether friend or foe were with Marjorie. He was delighted to see Barbara's father. Here was his opportunity.
It was probably the dirtiest little boy in England who came persuasively to Mr. Pelham's side, holding the transformed Barbara—now almost equally dirty—by the hand.
"Your baby likes our house," he said. "May she come to-morrow, and stop to tea?"
Barbara, gazing with delight at her unrecognisable hands, held them up to her father's view; sufficient plea, she held these hands for a repetition of delight. And when Ross and Orme ambled up alongside, regarding him solemnly with their round blue eyes, awaiting his verdict, he said "Yes."
Sandy's remnant of conscience prompted him to say, "We'll bring her back some time—honour bright. Don't want that nasty nurse prancing 'bout."
"Hush, Sandy!" said Marjorie.
"Don't," reiterated Sandy sturdily; "her skirts scrape an' scratch—an' she screams if you do things sudden."
"I hope it is quite safe," Marjorie said a little anxiously, as Barbara was marched off to the nursery by all her swains, to be cleaned, and reinstated in her satin gown. "Sandy doesn't quite realise what a baby she is."
"No harm could happen on the way down," Mr. Pelham said thoughtfully, "and it is but a step from my gate to the Court. I have watched how careful they are with her."
Marjorie's solicitude for his baby prompted him to inquire, rising unwillingly when that small person reappeared, "Are you dining at the Deanery to-morrow?"