“Yes, Sir Herbert Binney, proprietor of the famous Binney’s Buns. But, look here, Adeline,” the absorption in her nephew’s interest blotted out for the moment her scorn of the other woman, “Uncle Binney favors the match.”
“What match?” Mrs Everett was honestly blank.
“Between Richard and Dorcas.”
“Why, he doesn’t know Dorcas.”
“He has seen her, and anyway, he’d approve of any nice girl that Rick cared for. You see, Sir Herbert wanted the boy to marry and settle down and become the American branch of Binney’s Buns.”
“My daughter the wife of a baker! No, thank you! You know me, Letitia Prall, well enough to know my ambitions for Dorcas. She shall marry the man I choose for her,—and he will not be a baker! Nor,” and her face was drawn with sudden anger, “nor will he be Richard Bates!”
“Indeed he will not!” and Miss Prall rose and flounced out of the place.
In his own small but attractive apartment, Sir Herbert Binney was dressing for dinner. Always a careful dresser, he was unusually particular this evening. His man, Peters, thought he had never seen his master so fussed over the minor details of his apparel. Also, Sir Herbert was preoccupied. Usually he chatted cheerily, but to-night he was thoughtful, almost moody.
“A cab, sir?” said Peters, half afraid that he’d be snapped at for asking an unnecessary question, yet not quite certain that a cab was desired.
“Yes,” was the absent-minded response, and Peters passed on the word by telephone to the doorman below.