“Of course he didn't, Felicia,” broke in Peter. “What a question to ask a man! Listen to the croakings of your miserable tadpoles with the prettiest girl in seven counties—in seven States, for that matter—sitting beside him! Oh!—you needn't look, you minx! If he heard a single croak he ought to be ducked in the puddle—and then packed off home soaking wet.”
“And that is what he is going to do himself,” rejoined Ruth, dropping into a chair which Peter had drawn up for her.
“Do what!” cried Peter.
“Pack himself off—going by the early train—nothing I can do or say has made the slightest impression on him,” she said with a toss of her head.
Jack raised his hands in protest, but Peter wouldn't listen.
“Then you'll come back, sir, on Saturday and stay until Monday, and then we'll all go down together and you'll take Ruth across the ferry to her father's.
“Thank you, sir, but I am afraid I can't. You see, it all depends on the work—” this last came with a certain tone of regret.
“But I'll send MacFarlane a note, and have you detailed as an escort of one to bring his only daughter——”
“It would not do any good, Mr. Grayson.”
“Stop your nonsense, Jack—” Peter called him so now—“You come back for Sunday.” These days with the boy were the pleasantest of his life.