"Now, papa, you do not mean that," she responded, patting him on the head. "I know you too well, you bad dear papa. If I thought you did, it would make me feel very cross toward you. There—now—papa—do not—say—any more." She concluded the last phrase with kisses between the words.
"My dear, we will drop the matter," he said. "I mean to keep him, Edith; for I like him; really I do. Miss Barton what is your opinion?"
"The same as Edith's," she answered.
Edith turned quickly and looked at Star, a mobile stiffness clouding her face, not knowing how to take Star's words.
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed her father; "you are an extraordinary girl, Miss Barton—as extraordinary as Edith."
"Thank you," returned Star, bowing to him. "I have reasons to feel extraordinary since two weeks ago."
Father, daughter and ward whiled away the time for an hour in such kind of interchange of colloquy. Then John returned, with his tray full of letters, and set it down on Mr. Jarney's desk.
"Mr. Winthrope," said Mr. Jarney, looking up, with a deceiving frown, which caused John to have queer sensations go through him at first; "Mr. Winthrope, I am going to—I am tired of signing letters, and shall delegate that power to you. So sit down here at my desk, and put your 'John Hancock' on these, using my name, of course, instead of your own. You may do this while Miss Barton and I take a little turn down the street. Edith, I will leave you here to see that Mr. Winthrope does not shirk his work."
John was amazed; Edith was astounded; Star was astonished. Mr. Jarney repaired to the cloak room, from whence he returned in a few minutes wearing a high silk hat and heavy overcoat, and carrying a gold-headed cane.
"Miss Barton, will you accompany me?" he said to Star, after his preparation, taking it for granted that she would not refuse.