"Indeed not," Lord Roker hastened to assure her, fearful lest this delectable vision should vanish.
She took the chair he offered.
"Well, what have you gotten at York?" inquired Mr. Pilgrim.
"You'd neither of you guess. Three grandfather's clocks."
"Three!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "Sheraton?" he added.
"No; just grandfather's clocks, and the dearest ones you ever saw."
"I could bet on that," said her father. "Are they genuine?"
"They are all dated, and Mr. Tullitt got pedigrees with each of them. One of them tells the moon, and one the day of the month. We shall have to hire an astrologer to regulate them and start them fair. Mr. Tullitt says he works best on board your railroad car, as noise suits him, so I shall fix the three clocks up in his den here to keep him happy. I reckon he'll know when it's lunch time, anyway. But what have you been doing, dad?"
"Makin' a few notes. At present I'm gettin' some valu'ble information. Lord Roker says he's a drone."
"Then I'm sure that Lord Roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him.