"I will go," he said at last, "for your sake and Doris's."
"Good man!" she returned with sudden good humour, her eyes bright. "It will all come right—you'll see! Tell old Christopher that his little sweetheart of the old days—Doris, I mean; he never loved me!—is in danger of the workhouse and so forth, and ask for fifty thousand at least."
"It will end any chance we have of a share in the di—"
"'Sh!"
Doris came in. She was a tall girl with something of her mother's darkness, but she had the blue-grey eyes of her father and his finely-cut features. Of late a sadness foreign to youth had dwelt in her eyes, and her smile had seemed dutiful rather than voluntary. Otherwise she had not betrayed her sorry heart and uneasy mind. She carried herself splendidly, and she had good right to be called lovely.
"Mother," she exclaimed, and kissed her father, "why didn't you tell me he was to be home for breakfast?"
"Because I did not know, my dear"—which was untrue—"and, besides, you were very late last night. Better to have your rest out." Mrs. Lancaster rose. "Persuade your father to have a fresh cup of coffee while you take your own breakfast, I must 'phone Wilders about the flowers for to-night." She left the room.
Doris poured the coffee and milk and placed the cup at his hand, saying—
"You must be tired, dear, after two nights in the train."
"A little, Doris," he answered, endeavouring to make his voice sound cheerful.