"Well, I think he is," remarked Effie May with a twinkle at her step-daughter. "Depends upon who does the asking—What do you say, Joan?"
"It would have to be done in words of one syllable," murmured the girl unkindly, "but I'll try."
So that again Archibald had occasion to shake hands with Fate; and found himself regularly every Saturday afternoon at four o'clock beneath the roof of his One and Only, gently exercising her parent, with every likelihood of tea to follow.
Not that Archibald had any liking for tea. On the first occasion of his accepting it, he had asked for four lumps of sugar in his cup, explaining that plenty of sweetness took the worst of the taste away. But he had firmly declined the Major's sympathetic suggestion to substitute a highball, having his own quaint notions of the proprieties. One of them was that no gentleman drinks liquor in the presence of a lady. It was a genuine shock to him to find that Major Darcy did so, freely: and what he felt when Mrs. Darcy joined her husband in the act, he was fortunately able to dissemble. It merely confirmed an earlier impression.
Joan gave up riding on Saturday afternoons to stay at home and umpire the boxing matches. She felt that her father ought to be encouraged. Besides, it rather interested her to see her protégé in a new light. Once stripped to the waist and gloved—(she soon got used to the sight of her father in a pink silk undershirt and Archibald in no shirt at all), the young man lost all his awkwardness and shyness and appeared quite a different person, confident, masterly.
"Look out, Major! I'm after your nose this time," he would smile. "Guard yourself. Here's where I get it!"
"Damned if you do!" the other would cry, feinting desperately, but without avail. Archie always got it.
At first the girl gasped with alarm whenever his glove plopped into smart contact with her father's face or body; but she soon saw that only the skill of the younger man went into these blows, never his strength. Richard Darcy saw it too, and was mortified.
"You're playing off on me, damn your young hide!" he would pant. "You wait—I'll show you yet, I'll show you yet!"
And when on one proud occasion he did "show him," to the extent of bringing an unexpected trickle of blood from Archie's nose, Joan let out a cheer of triumph—in which the victim joined with a will.