He had a defensive inspiration.
“Perhaps Mrs. Sawbridge, Sir Isaac....”
Mrs. Sawbridge was enjoying the sunshine upon the lawn. She sat in the most comfortable garden chair, held a white sunshade overhead, had the last new novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward upon her lap, and was engaged in trying not to wonder where her daughter might be. She beheld with a distinct blenching of the spirit Sir Isaac advancing towards her. She wondered more than ever where Ellen might be.
“Here!” cried her son-in-law. “Where’s Ellen gone?”
Mrs. Sawbridge with an affected off-handedness was sure she hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Then you ought to have,” said Isaac. “She ought to be at home.”
Mrs. Sawbridge’s only reply was to bridle slightly.
“Where’s she got to? Where’s she gone? Haven’t you any idea at all?”
“I was not favoured by Ellen’s confidence,” said Mrs. Sawbridge.
“But you ought to know,” cried Sir Isaac. “She’s your daughter. Don’t you know anything of either of your daughters. I suppose you don’t care where they are, either of them, or what mischief they’re up to. Here’s a man—comes home early to his tea—and no wife! After hearing all I’ve done at the club.”