"Oh, you don't mind, father, do you?"
"What's that?"
The Archdeacon was in a good humour. He loved apple tart.
"The Massarenes, by Ouida."
"Trashy novels. Why don't you girls ever read anything but novels?" and so on.
The little china clock with the blue mandarin on the mantelpiece struck half past two. He must be going. He threw a last look round the room as though he were desperately committing everything to memory--the shabby, comfortable chairs, the Landseer "Dignity and Impudence," the warm, blue carpet, the round silver biscuit-tin on the sideboard.
"Well, I must be getting along."
"You'll be back to dinner, Falk dear, won't you? It's early to-night. Quarter past seven. Father has a meeting."
He looked at them all. His father was sitting back in his chair, a satisfied man.
"Yes, I'll be back," he said, and went out.