Then she comes forward, mask in hand, and followed by the laughing Carmen.
“Alan, you are in difficulty, I see,” laughing, in spite of her attempt at gravity. “Millie, I fear, is not quite up to your standard of silent perfection.”
“May I ask, Mrs. Warburton, if she is your ideal of a companion for this child?”
The tone is faintly tinged with scorn and sternness, and Leslie Warburton’s eyes cease to smile as she replies, with dignity:
“She is my servant, Mr. Warburton. We will not discuss her merits in her presence. I will relieve you of any further trouble on her account.”
“Where, may I ask, is Daisy’s own maid?”
“In her room, with a headache that unfits her for duty. Come here, Daisy.”
Up to this moment Alan Warburton has kept the hand of the child clasped in his own. He now releases it with evident reluctance, and the little fairy bounds toward her stepmother.
“Mamma, how lovely you look!” reaching up her arms to caress the head that bends toward her. “Mamma, take me with you where the music is.”
“Have you been to Papa’s room, Daisy? You know we must not let him feel lonely to-night.”