“No, no, no.”
“Then—”
The old man waved his cane with a graceful flourish, placed it in the hand that held his snuff-box, opened the latter, and, after tapping it, took a pinch, as if it were a matter calling forth long study of deportment to perform, closed the box with a loud snap, and said, in a haughty, affected tone:
“Half an hour since, on a well-filled parade, I encountered His Royal Highness and a group of friends.”
He paused, and took out a silk handkerchief, embroidered here and there with purple flowers by his child.
“And then—”
There was a flourish of the handkerchief, and the flicking away of imaginary specks from the tightly-buttoned coat.
“His Royal Highness—”
“Yes, papa,” said Claire piteously, as he looked at her as if asking her attention.
At that moment Morton entered, looking weary and discontented; but, seeing his father’s peculiar look, he checked the words he was about to say, and watched his face as he gave his handkerchief another flourish, replaced it, and took his cane from his left hand to twirl it gracefully.