Fanny suddenly became affectionate, almost pathetic. “And I never congratulated you! I was so sure you’d be nominated—why, I took it as a matter of course.”
Briggs looked away. “Yes, you women folks always do,” he said, bitterly. “It is only the disappointments in life that you don’t take as matters of course.”
Fanny clapped her hands. “Uncle Doug, now I know what the trouble is. You haven’t had any breakfast. Dad’s always as cross as two sticks till he’s had his.”
“Yes, I have. I’m tired, that’s all. Now, run along, like a good girl. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Oh!” Fanny tossed her head, rose lightly on tiptoe and, swaying back and forth, started for the door. There she turned. “You forget I’ve had a birthday since I saw you last,” she said, haughtily.
Douglas Briggs had begun to write again. “Did you? What was it—fourteen, fifteen—?”
Fanny stiffened her fingers and held them before her eyes. “Ugh!” she exclaimed.
As she started to open the door she was thrust rudely back. Someone had pushed the door from the other side. She turned quickly and met the astonished face of Guy Fullerton.
“Fanny!” Guy cried, joyously. “When in the world did you get here?”
Fanny held out both hands. Guy seized them and tried to draw her toward him. She stopped him with a warning gesture, and glanced at her uncle.