“Dunno, don’t care; only that I’m devilish glad they have gone. Now I can have a ‘peg.’”
“No, you can’t.”
“Can’t! What the devil do you mean, Clytie?”
“What I say. You’ve had enough of a ‘peg’ to last you till to-night. What you want now is some strong coffee, so come right in and have it.”
He grumbled something about not being master in his own house, and a good deal more. But in the end he submitted; for Clytie was the one who ruled him, and, to do her justice, ruled him tactfully and for his good, so far as it lay within her power; whereas Delia was somewhat intolerant of this phase of her parent’s weakness, and adopted towards it a scornful attitude.
“Well, dad, you haven’t guessed who has just gone,” went on Clytie.
“How the blazes should I know—or care?” snapped the old man. “Some spark of yours, I suppose.”
“Haven’t got any just now. Everyone seems ‘off’ me. Delia’s putting my nose clean out of joint,” was the placid reply. “Well, what d’you think of Wagram?”
“What?” roared old Calmour, who was just in the quarrelsome stage and was glad of an object whereon to vent it. “He? If I’d been here I’d have kicked him out of the house.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Delia quickly. “You couldn’t, to begin with.”