"Well, you see, she has no children, no positive home interests; her wonderful talents and exertions, are squandered among strangers. Ffinch has made a fortune—some say two—and yet he won't stir. He is rooted in coffee; so poor woman, is she! If he only would take her to London, there backed up by his long purse, she would be in her natural element; an admirable organizer of important functions, bazaars, charity balls, and political receptions; dealing with affairs on a grand scale, instead of running our tuppenny-halfpenny concerns."
"But these, no doubt with success?" said Mayne.
"Well, yes, on the whole—there have been one or two lapses, but a sacrificial goat was always on the spot!"
"Father!" broke in Nancy, "how can you be so horrid? You are talking like an odious cynic. Finchie has done no end of wonderful things—patching up all the quarrels, and getting people into good posts. She is always right—if ever she wants a scapegoat—here am I!"
"Noble child!" Travers ejaculated, and he surveyed his daughter with laughing eyes.
"Captain Mayne," she resumed, "don't you think Captain Calvert good looking?"
"Um—no," then after a doubtful pause, "more the other thing,—since you ask me."
"Bad looking, I suppose you mean. How funny!"
"I understand," said Travers, "that Mephistophelian cast—it does appeal to women and children."
"You have got into the wrong side of your chair, Daddy. What dreadful things you are saying—talking of Finchie's scapegoats, and seeing a likeness to the old gentleman, in Captain Calvert."