“Now, who the very deuce can that be?” remarked Clytie.
“Maybe the old man’s come in ‘fresh,’ and can’t fit his key,” jeered Bob.
“’Tisn’t him. He wouldn’t ring, he’d batter—especially if he’s ‘full,’” rejoined Clytie, whose knowledge of the paternal habits was exhaustive. “One of us’ll have to go to the door. Emily’s out. Wait; let’s make sure first who it is.”
She passed into a room whose windows afforded a view of the front gate, only to reappear immediately in a state of suppressed excitement, a very unusual thing for her.
“‘Talk of the devil,’” she quoted. “Why, it’s him.”
“Who? The devil?” said Bob.
“No, you ass; Wagram Wagram himself! Now, Delia, you and I’ll worry out this tangle. Go in there,” pushing her through a door. “And you, Bob, make yourself scarce. You’re not to appear, see?”
“Why not? Where do I come in?”
“Nowhere. We don’t want you at all. You’d give away the whole show. Come, git!”
Grumbling, Bob “got.” He could not afford to run direct contrary to his sisters’ wishes when decidedly expressed; he was too much dependent on their good offices in more ways than one. In abolishing him on this occasion Clytie’s judgment was sound. The descendants male of the ex-army vet were a great deal less presentable than the descendants female—and this she knew.