“Nothing of the sort; you look tired out. Come along; we’ll find a chair in a comparatively quiet corner.”
“I’m not tired, really; I’m happier at work.”
“I know that,” he said in his fatherly way. “But you mustn’t overdo it, you know. Where’s Miss Winston?”
“I persuaded her not to come. She’s been singing all the afternoon at one place and another; we’ve had quite a big day of it, padre.”
“Just so. And it’s all right here, as it happens. We’ve got the Cacciolas, as you see, and they’re a host in themselves—dear folk! Isn’t Miss Maddelena wonderful? Why didn’t you bring your little Miss Culpepper along?”
“She’s keeping house with Dear Brutus, and expected an old sweetheart to tea.”
“You don’t say so! Well, well. Now sit you down, child, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“I’ve got some here; and please, Mr. Iverson, do introduce me to Mrs. Carling.”
It was Maddelena herself who joined them, a dark wrap thrown over her picturesque dress, a big steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
He complied, and Maddelena smiled down at her, and tendered the coffee.