"And what did you do to him?" demanded Mrs. Creery, turning round and staring at the victim of ignorance.
"Nothing—what could I do? he knew no better; but I told my fellow not to let him come near me for a few days."
"Colonel Denis," said the lady, now addressing him, "is it true that you have not seen your daughter for thirteen years?"
"Yes, quite true, I am sorry to say."
"Why did you not go home on furlough?"
"I never could manage it. When I could get home I had no money, and when money was plentiful, there was no leave."
"Ah, and you told me she was a pretty girl, I believe; I hope you are not building on that, for pretty children are a delusion; I never yet saw one of them that did not grow up plain."
"Excepting me, Mrs. Creery," expostulated Mr. Quentin; "if history is to be believed, I was a most beautiful infant—so beautiful that people came to see me for miles and miles around, and (insinuatingly) I'm sure you would not call me plain now?"
Mrs. Creery (who had a secret partiality for this gentleman) laughed incredulously, and then replied, "Well, perhaps you are the exception that proves the rule. Of course," once more addressing Colonel Denis, "your daughter will bring out all the new fashions, and have no end of pretty things—that is if you have given her a liberal outfit."
She here paused for a reply, but no answer being forthcoming went on, "If you feel at all nervous about meeting her, I'll go on board with you with pleasure; I should like it, and you are well enough acquainted with me to know that you have only to say the word!"