“Yes, indeed,” said I. “And the world being what it is, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Do you think you can bring him back, papa?”
“That depends on you,” said I warily.
“I’ll do anything—anything. I’ll crawl to him, if he wants me to. After all, he is the Marquis of Crossley, and I’m only an American nobody.”
“That’s the proper spirit,” said I. “But you mustn’t show it to him too plainly. Be moderate. A little pretense of dignity—of self-respect.”
“I understand,” said she seriously—she was indeed Edna’s own daughter. “I’ll be as I was before we were married.” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I can bide my time. When I have a son!”
“Get ready and come up to town to-night,” said I, with a most unfatherly gruffness and curtness, I fear. “I’m off now to deal with him.”
“Be careful not to wound his pride, papa,” she cautioned.
“I realize the danger of that,” replied I. “Come to the Savoy. Be on hand, so I can get hold of you whenever I need you.”
“Oh, papa dear!” she cried, and cast herself into my arms.