“May I come in?”
The child uttered a cry of delight, sprang from her father’s knee, and dashed across the studio, to begin dragging forward the rough grey-beard in a shabby velvet coat, and soft black hat.
He raised her in his arms, and bore her forward caressingly, to sit chatting for some time. Then Cornel rose and took the child’s hand.
“Come, dear,” she said. “Your tea-time.”
“No, no. I want to stop with Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe wants to talk to papa about business,” said Cornel, with a nod and a smile, as she drew the little one away. “You shall come in to dessert if you are good.”
She nodded, smiling at the rough-looking old friend, and then tripped out playfully with the child.
“Light your pipe, old man,” said Armstrong. “Is it business?”
“Yes. Your wife reads my face like a book. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”
“No. Been growling all day at the bad light and playing with Tiny.”