“Then they must not meet either.”
“No, my dear, I suppose it would be best not,” said the old man; “but—but do you know, Maudey, I feel as if I was between those two confounded stools in the proverb, and—and I know I shall come to the ground. But—but where—where did you get married?”
“At a little church, papa dear, close to Holborn.”
“Of course,” groaned the old man to himself. “Close to Saffron Hill, I suppose.”
“I don’t know the street, papa dear.”
“That’s right, my pet. I mean that’s wrong. I—I—really, Maudey my pet, I’m so upset with the travelling, and now with finding you, that I—I hardly know what I ought to say.”
“Say you forgive your own little girl, dear, and that you will love my own darling husband as if he were your son.”
“But—but, Maudey, my dear, I don’t feel as if I could. You see when a poor man like that—I wish Tom would come.”
“Tom!” cried Maude, springing up and turning pale.
“Yes, yes, he’s coming to join me, my pet. Would you like to see him now, or—or—or wait a bit till he isn’t so furious?”