"Even if you had, I should have already enjoyed the expectation. That would be safe."
"There's a good deal to be said in excuse of surprises," he rejoined; "but in the present case, I have a special one to offer. I was taken with a sudden desire to see you. It was very foolish no doubt, and you are quite right in wishing I weren't here, only going to come to-morrow."
"Don't be so cruel, papa. Scarcely a day passes in which I do not long to see you. My baby makes me think more about my home than ever."
"Then she's a very healthy baby, if one may judge by her influences. But you know, if I had had to give you warning, I could not have been here before to-morrow; and surely you will acknowledge, that, however nice expectation may be, presence is better."
"Yes, papa. We will make a compromise, if you please. Every time you think of coming to me, you must either come at once, or let me know you are coming. Do you agree to that?"
"I agree," he said.
So I have the pleasure of a constant expectation. Any day he may walk in unheralded; or by any post I may receive a letter with the news that he is coming at such a time.
As we sat at dinner that evening, he asked if we had lately seen Miss
Clare.
"I've seen her only once, and Percivale not at all, since you were here last, papa," I answered.
"How's that?" he asked again, a little surprised. "Haven't you got her address yet? I want very much to know more of her."