Sir David turned to go with considerable dignity.
“Mr. Tuke,” he said over his shoulder, “I stake my reputation on the man’s honesty, and I say you are treating him vilely and inhumanly. I shall have the honour of sendin’ a friend to you.”
The other bowed grimly, and was advancing to show his visitor out, when both gentlemen were aware of an apparition in the doorway, standing white and rebukeful, with clasped hands.
“Fie, Angel!” cried the baronet. “You’ve been listening.”
Whether to cover her confusion at the charge, or to top the situation appropriately, Miss Angela at this flung herself down into the room and on to her brother’s breast.
“Davy, Davy!” she cried in an anguished voice, “you’re not going to fight?” And he answered fretfully: “Get up! You’re squashin’ my shirt-frill.”
Mr. Tuke came forward gallantly. The girl had stepped back with an air of frightened indecision. With one hand she adjusted a tumbled curl; the other she held out as if for an examination by Love the doctor.
Her knight assumed the rôle, and, bending, kissed the little active pulse.
“You have been day-dreaming,” he said. “Your brother and I are great friends.”
She looked up at him chidingly.