'Oh, father,' I said, shaking his arm, 'it would look deliriously beautiful printed on good paper with wide margins and rough edges?'
Nannie said, 'You give it to Master Michael, dearie. He'll like it, and as to rhymes, why the stuff your father reads never has any.'
So I presented it to Michael, and I had no illusions then as to whether I were kissed or not.
Later, at tea, father had just observed that, like the Ephesians, we were 'in danger to be called in question for this day's uproar,' when a telegram was brought to him.
'The tone of this household will have to buck up a bit,' he remarked as he read it.
'It will after to-morrow,' grinned Charlie Foxhill, 'when Meg's gone, sir.'
(For oh, to-morrow is my wedding day, just fancy.)
'It's got to buck up before that,' father replied; 'this wire is from the new Bishop of Ligeria, he's coming here this afternoon and wants to stop the night. He'll have to stay on for the wedding, of course.'
'Oh, daddy,' I exclaimed in great disgust, 'we can't have this Ligerian fossil here to-morrow, it'll spoil everything, besides, there isn't a bed.'
'He'll have to sleep in his suit-case then, and his chaplain in the lid, Meg; there's no time to put him off, and do try to behave like 'a clergyman's daughter' while he's here, little 'un! Why, good gracious!'