"Won't you come too?" asked Lydia.
"No, I'll stay at home to-night. I turned my ankle to-day and it is rather stiff. Father!"
This time her voice was sharp, menacing almost, thought Lydia, and Mr. Briggerland made an heroic attempt to recover his self-possession.
"Cer—certainly, my dear—I shall be delighted—er—delighted."
He saw her alone whilst Lydia was changing in her lovely big dressing-room, overlooking the sea.
"Why didn't you tell me there was smallpox in Cap Martin?" he demanded fretfully.
"Because I didn't know till Margaret relieved her mind at our expense," said his daughter coolly. "I had to say something. Besides, I'd heard one of the maids say that somebody's mother had deserted him—I fitted it in. What a funk you are, father!"
"I hate the very thought of disease," he growled. "Why aren't you coming with us—there is nothing the matter with your ankle?"
"Because I prefer to stay at home."
He looked at her suspiciously.