‘Oh, I have no idea, Mr. Barmby.’
‘Forty miles—positively! Forty miles of cabs!’
‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy.
‘I saw it stated in a paper.’
The girls glanced at each other, and smiled. Barmby beamed upon them with the benevolence of a man who knew his advantages, personal and social.
And at this moment Horace Lord came in. He had not the fresh appearance which usually distinguished him; his face was stained with perspiration, his collar had become limp, the flower at his buttonhole hung faded.
‘Well, here I am. Are you going?’
‘I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,’ said his sister.
‘Awf’ly sorry. Couldn’t get here before.’
He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with a fixed meaningless smile.