“If you want to go hunting for Olivia, say so; but don’t put it down to the poor children,” said Mrs. Denison.
And she went indoors, shutting the door with a nearer approach to a “slam” than etiquette prescribes for a lady.
No sooner was she safely inside than Olivia crept along under the lea of the house wall, and springing up the worn steps at a bound, flung down her umbrella, and threw her arms round her father’s neck like a hungry young bear.
“Good gracious, my dear, you’re quite wet and as cold as ice. You must come inside and warm yourself.”
“Oh, no, dear old papa—poor old papa; it’s warmer here outside. With Beatrix and Regie fighting, and mamma at freezing point, the place must be——”
“Now you’ve been listening; that isn’t right.”
“Yes, I have—all the afternoon—taking in all the private conversations I could get near enough to overhear. I find it grows upon one. But I can always tell what temper Mrs. Denison is in without any listening.”
“Now, Olivia, I won’t hear that. Your step-mother is the best of women——”
“Yes, papa, I know,” said Olivia, nodding gravely.
Indeed she had heard that sentiment many scores of times, and she supposed that by constant repetition her good-natured father hoped to persuade himself that it was true.