“And you can bet your bottom dollar he wouldn’t,” said Harry.
“Then I think he ought to give an account of himself.”
“Oh yes, I know, that’s justice, man’s justice. Come, come, come, Mrs. Harry Marksby,” said Harry in a tone of cheerful warning; “and here we are at the theatre. Now, don’t say a word to your mother, she’s upset enough, poor old lady.”
Now, as Mrs. Whittaker had dined the little party, it became Harry’s pleasing duty to give them supper, and from the theatre they went to a certain fashionable supper-room, again by means of a couple of hansoms. This time it was Julia who shared the hansom of her brother-in-law.
“Now, look here, Harry,” she said, “for goodness’ sake don’t say anything about having seen daddy to-night.”
“Why, what do you take me for? Do you think I was born yesterday—or the day after to-morrow?”
“But mother says she knows all about it, and that it’s much more simple than we think, and she thinks that Maudie will go blabbing it out.”
“Oh, that’s all right, I have given her a hint already. At the same time, I think your father ought to—well—ought to make things a little more secure.”
“Yes, I know, but he had not the least idea that we were dining out to-night; it was quite an impromptu arrangement and daddy might be vexed if Maudie said anything to him about it—‘We saw you dining with a lady the other night’—you know, that sort of thing.”
“Is he—um—um—”