“Yes. Well, now, think of his life spent in being told he had the Develin him.”
A peal of laughter went up from Yvonne—and it was good to hear that child laugh—such a clear, merry, hearty trill.
“I’ve been waiting for that,” she cried. “Mr Wagram, you’re a perfect godsend. Father has inflicted it upon every available being up till now. Briggs, the gardener, was gurgling to such an extent that he had to stop digging. He even stopped old Finlay, driving by to Swanton, and fired it off on him.”
“Sunbeam, you are getting insufferably impudent,” said her father. “I shall really have to cane you.”
With mock gravity she held out a hand that was a very model, with its long, tapering fingers, which closed upon those which descended upon it in a playful little slap.
“He isn’t the only sinner in that respect, Sunbeam,” said Wagram. “I myself was inflicting it upon our crowd at just about the same time.”
“And are not ashamed of yourself? I’ve a great mind not to show you where I took out a two-pounder the other evening.”
“Did you get it out yourself?”
“That’s stale. I sha’n’t even answer it. Come.”
She had taken an arm of each, in the way of one who ruled both of them. But Haldane hung back.