"Hallo, Dad! I did n't see you," exclaimed Tilly, kissing her male parent excitedly.
"Welcome home, my daughter!" said Mr. Welwyn. "Now kiss your mother."
Tilly had already begun to do so, and an eager conversation followed.
"Of course, we've heard a bit from Perce," began Mrs. Welwyn at once, drawing the pins out of her daughter's hat, "and my word! you seem to have got into the very thick of it this time, and no mistake!"
"I should just think so," gabbled Tilly. "Such a place, Mother! Billiard-rooms, and garages, and butlers, and a fire in your bedroom and a hot bottle in your bed, and a maid to put you into your clothes, and I don't know what all! And I was introduced to a lot of future relations. There was Lady Adela. She tried to patronise me, but was n't much good. Then Sylvia, the daughter. I hate her--she is a cat. And Connie Carmyle. She is no relation, but I love her. And Father Mainwaring, he is a dear. He says he was at Cambridge with you, Dad."
Mr. Welwyn put down the newspaper.
"What is that?" he enquired in a sharp voice. "Cambridge?"
"Yes. He does n't remember you at all distinctly," said Tilly, "but says he has an impression that you were the most brilliant man of your year."
"If that," remarked Mr. Welwyn, in a distinctly relieved tone, "is all that he recollects about me, I shall be pleased to meet him again."
"How is Dicky, Tilly?" enquired Amelia.