His companion, at this, unmistakeably started. “Do you mean your daughter’s here?”
Mr. Prodmore glowed with consciousness. “In the morning-room.”
“Waiting for me?”
The tone showed a consternation that Mr. Prodmore’s was alert to soothe. “Ah, as long, you know, as you like!”
Yule’s alarm, however, was not assuaged; it appeared to grow as he stared, much discomposed, yet sharply thinking, at the door to which his friend had pointed. “Oh, longer than this, please!” Then as he turned away: “Do you mean she knows——?”
“That she’s here on view?” Mr. Prodmore hung fire a moment, but was equal to the occasion. “She knows nothing whatever. She’s as unconscious as the rose on its stem!”
His companion was visibly relieved. “That’s right—let her remain so! I’ll first take the house,” said Clement Yule.
“Shall I go round with you?” Mr. Prodmore asked.
The young man’s reflection was brief. “Thank you. I’d rather, on the whole, go round alone.”
The old servant who had admitted the gentlemen came back at this crisis from the morning-room, looking from under a bent brow and with much limpid earnestness from one of them to the other. The one he first addressed had evidently, though quite unaware of it, inspired him with a sympathy from which he now took a hint. “There’s tea on, sir!” he persuasively jerked as he passed the younger man.