"Dinner didn't ought to be long," Mr. Hamlyn remarked.
"'Ope not," said his son shortly. "I'll holler to Maud."
Miss Hamlyn came in soon afterwards, followed by the maid with a joint of roast beef. The editor's daughter was a tall girl with sulky lips, bold eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. This last was now screwed round her forehead in curling-pins.
The two men attacked their dinner in silence. Both of them had tucked a handkerchief round their necks, in order to preserve the Sunday waistcoat from droppings of food, a somewhat wise precaution, as both of them ate very rapidly.
"Maud," said Hamlyn at length, "can you do a bit of typing for me this afternoon?"
"No, then, I can't, Pa," she replied resentfully, "and it's like you to ask it. On the Sabbath, too! I'm going out with Gussie Davies for a walk."
"Touch the 'arp lightly, my dear," he replied, "no need to get your feathers up."
"Well, Pa," she answered, "I'm sure I'm ready to spank the beastly machine for you all the week, you know I am. But Sundays is different."
Hamlyn made no reply. Both he and his son were thinking deeply, and as yet no reference had escaped them as to the doings of the morning. Although the girl knew there was something special afoot, she was not much interested in the details, being at all times a person much occupied with her own affairs.
During the pudding, she had a short and slangy conversation with her brother, and directly the meal was over she went up-stairs to "dress."