CHAPTER VIII.
As the balcony was too small for another chair, and Mr. Skinner did not come to the window, his daughter led her guest into the sitting-room.
“Papa,” she said, “you will recall the gentleman whom we met yesterday at the British Museum.”
Mr. Skinner lifted to its place the pince-nez which depended on a gold thread from the lapel of his carefully-buttoned frock-coat, and scrutinised the person indicated in a painstaking manner.
“Ah, yes, indeed,” he said, continuing his gaze, but with no salutation, and no offer of the hand.
“It’s so dark in here, I don’t believe you do,” she remarked, to cover the awkwardness of the moment. “The sun has gone now, any way,” and she moved back and put a hand upon the awning-cord.
“Permit me,” said David, hurrying to her side, and pulling at the shade.
“He’s out of sorts about something,” the girl murmured furtively. “Don’t mind it; just leave him to me.”