And the Philosopher, rather “hunchy” of shoulder and somewhat shambling about the feet looked into the room with a quizzical air of enquiry.
The Sentimentalist rushed at him with the light swoop of a bird flying from heaven to earth.
“Oh, how could you!” she exclaimed, half laughing and half crying together. “How could you—”
“Well, well! Now what’s the matter?” And the Philosopher fenced off with one arm her eager little hands ready to embrace his coat sleeve. “Be calm! Be normal! How could I—what?”
“How could you be so wicked!” she went on. “Yes!—so wicked!—and so—so—good!”
“I couldn’t,” and the Philosopher smiled quite a superior smile. “I couldn’t be wicked and good at the same moment! Sentiment again, you see! Dear child, you will overdo the thing! You must really try to be less emotional! And how do you find your young man looking?”
For answer to this he found his hand caught and kissed, despite his efforts to avoid the impulsive caress.
“There, there!” he said, gently. “That will do, you foolish little girl! Durham, you’ll have your work cut out for you when you take her in hand! Now what about tea?”
“It’s ready!” and Sylvia pulled him along towards the daintily spread table. “All but the making—and I’ll see to that directly—”
“Well, begin at once,” said the Philosopher. “You needn’t wait for Dad. Both Dads are on their way across the garden—but they wanted you to meet the Oxford publisher first!”