"That seems quite in order," he muttered.
"Father is a business man, I know," continued Marjorie, with a cheery smile; "and I know business men like to see evidence in black and white. You can keep that licence, if you like, and send it to him from me, as a certificate of character, and tell him that I am very well—and busy—and happy—and respectable—and don't require providing for in any way whatever. And you can give my love to mother."
Uncle Fred rose to his feet, and held out his hand hesitatingly. Down in his puny soul he dimly felt himself in the presence of something rather unusually big.
"I will tell your father I have seen you," he said, "and what you have told me. And I'm—I'm sorry, if—"
Marjorie cut him short.
"That's all right!" she said, with great cheerfulness. "It was a difficult mission for you, I know, and I'm not surprised you made a mess of it. Now," she added briskly, "I feel terribly inhospitable at not having given you any tea. Liss and I are just going out to dinner. It's—it's—rather a special occasion with us, and we are going to have an extra good one. Won't you join us?"
She crossed to the bureau again, and picked up the writing-pad.
"We are going," she announced, resolutely avoiding the bulging eyes of Miss Elizabeth Lyle, "to have Potage à la reine, Sole meunière, Duckling, Méringues—"
But Uncle Fred was down and out.
"I can't accept," he replied, almost piteously. "I must be off to Dulwich. But thank you kindly!" He moved to the door. "I will write to your father. Good-bye, my girl!" He nodded nervously towards Liss. "Good-evening, all!"