"Then here goes. Take a long breath. Keep your wig on. Put your feet in plaster casts so as not to kick." He summoned his forces to speak strongly. "If Edith was to pick out a man she wanted to marry—and I was to pick out a girl—no matter who—it would be the chic new stuff for father and you—"
But the chic new stuff for father and her was not laid down on the palm of the hand for the reason that a portly shadow was seen to move within the dimness of the drawing-room. At the same time, Max's joy was stifled by the appearance on the terrace of Dauphin, the Irish setter, who was consciously the dog en tître of the master of the house. Mrs. Collingham composed herself. Edith picked up a tennis ball from the flags and jumped it on her racket. Bob put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. It was the unwritten law of the family not to risk intimate discussion before a tribunal too august.
Once he had reached the terrace, it was plain that Collingham was tired. His shoulders were hunched; his walk had no spring in it.
"I'm all in," he sighed, sinking into the teakwood chair.
"Poor father!"
Edith dropped a hand on his shoulder. He drew it down to his lips and kissed it.
"You'd like your tea, wouldn't you?" The solicitude was his wife's. "We were just going to have it. Bob, do find Gossip and tell him to bring it here."
Bob limped into the house and out again. By the time he had returned, his father was saying:
"Yes; it's been a trying day. Among other things I've had to dismiss old Follett."
"The devil you have!"