"I haven't been many minutes, have I, dear?" she said, touching him lightly on the arm.
"Oh, dear no," answered Brian, looking at his watch, "only thirty—a mere nothing, considering a new dress was being discussed."
"I thought I had been longer," said Madge, her brow clearing; "but still I am sure you feel a martyr."
"Not at all," replied Fitzgerald, handing her into the carriage; "I enjoyed myself very much."
"Nonsense," she laughed, opening her sunshade, while Brian took his seat beside her; "that's one of those social stories—which every one considers themselves bound to tell from a sense of duty. I'm afraid I did keep you waiting—though, after all," she went on, with a true feminine idea as to the flight of time, "I was only a few minutes."
"And the rest," said Brian, quizzically looking at her pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great white hat.
Madge disdained to notice this interruption.
"James," she cried to the coachman, "drive to the Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know," she said to Brian, "and we'll take him off to have tea with us."
"But it's only one o'clock," said Brian, as the Town Hall clock came in sight. "Mrs. Sampson won't be ready."
"Oh, anything will do," replied Madge, "a cup of tea and some thin bread and butter isn't hard to prepare. I don't feel like lunch, and papa eats so little in the middle of the day, and you—"