“Yes, it is—now,” whimpered the girl, half crying. “I can’t help it. I’m so dreadfully sleepy.”
“Of course you are, of course. Poor little thing! Half-past three! Why, you ought to have been in bed hours ago. It was shameful of your father to bring you here. But—but—but,” cried the unfortunate man, staring and gesticulating fiercely, “why doesn’t someone tell me?”
“I did tell yer, Sir Hilton. The hosses was put in the dogcarts when you would come, and I’ve seen you safe. Can’t you understand now?”
“No, no; not a bit. Here, Syd!”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Come here.”
“Yes, uncle. There, lean your head back, Molly, if you will go to sleep.”
“I can’t help it, Syd dear; and I’m so cold.”
“Here, pull that over you, then,” whispered the boy hastily, and, as the poor girl sank back, he seized and gave the great silk-lined skin a hasty twitch which swept it right over his young wife. “Did you call me, uncle?”
“Yes, of course. I want Mark and that girl.”