Dr. Grafton found himself following her down the hall. “I’m going to be very busy and can’t get away,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps half-past twelve—”
The Duchess turned again, and contemplated him calmly. “Any reason why the rest must wait for you?” she inquired with uplifted eyebrows.
“Why, no,” said the Doctor.
“Well, then,” answered the Duchess, “come any time you want. You’ll find your dinner kep’ nice an’ warm on a plate in the oven.”
Dr. Grafton meekly returned to the living-room, to find his daughter considerately averting her face from him. His hearty laugh brought her back to his side. He threw himself on the couch by the window.
“Well, I give up!” he announced. “Was there ever such a martinet!”
Barbara laughed with him, but her face quickly sobered. “I really don’t think I shall stand it much longer,” she said. “She has absolutely no regard for my ideas, and pays no attention to any orders or requests. She even tells me what she ‘desires’ for meals.”
“They are very good meals,” put in the Doctor, hastily. His mind reviewed the gastronomic comforts of the last few days, and the uncertainty and scantiness of those meals before the arrival of the Duchess.
“Don’t give Mrs. Harris up, my dear,” he said, as he rose to depart. “You are forgetting the state of things before she came, just as it is hard to remember the tooth-ache when it has finally succumbed to treatment.”
A drawling voice from the library broke the ensuing silence.