"My father?" she repeated dully. "Oh, he's quite well, thank you."
Plainly her words puzzled him. He squinted his eyes as though to make sure of her.
"You're the young lady that stopped in here one day last spring with
Mark King? June it was, wasn't it? You bought some stuff for lunch."
"Yes," she admitted. She would never have remembered him. But he, who had not seen others like her, remembered.
"Then you're Ben Gaynor's girl?"
"Yes," she said again, and was about to go on, resenting his persistent meddlesomeness.
"And you say he's well?"
"Quite well, I believe," she said coolly.
"But wait a minute," he called after her. "Wasn't he bad hurt last night?"
"Papa hurt?"