“I never was in a theatre in my life, Missy; I don't approve of them, my dear.”
“No more do I—no more do I! But when you're staying with people you can't always be your own boss, now can you?”
“You could with us, Missy.”
“Well, that's bully; but I can't with these folks. They're regular terrors for the theatre, the folks I'm staying with now, and I don't know what they'll say if I keep 'em waiting long. Think you can do it?”
“Not by seven; but I think we might get there between five and ten minutes past.”
“Thank God!”
Mr. Teesdale wrinkled his forehead, but said nothing. Evidently it was of the first importance that Missy should not keep her friends waiting. Of these people, however, she had already spoken so lightly that David was pleased to fancy her as not caring very much about them. He was pleased, not only because they took her to the theatre, but because he wanted no rival Australian friends for his old friend's child; the farm, if possible, must be her only home so long as she remained in the Colony. When, therefore, the girl herself confirmed his hopes the very next time she opened her mouth, the old man beamed with satisfaction.
“These folks I'm staying with,” said Missy—“I'm not what you call dead nuts on 'em, as I said before.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” chuckled David, “because we want you all to ourselves, my dear.”
“So you think! Some day you'll be sorry you spoke.”