“Didst thou have a pleasant day with thy father, little girl?”
Ten pairs of envious eyes were upon her.
“Perfect,” she sighed.
“Sorry we could not keep him overnight.”
The maid entered to speak to Mrs. Benjamin, whereupon she rose and left the table. Isabelle was enlarging upon the delights of her holiday when her tongue suddenly clave to the roof of her mouth. She heard a voice saying:
“Engine wouldn’t work—tire punctured.”
She prayed violently for a fatal stroke of lightning or paralysis, but in vain. Mrs. Benjamin entered, followed by an irritated dapper little man.
“Adam, my dear, we have a guest. This is Isabelle’s father.”
A gasp went round the table—audible, visible. Never in his life had Wally Bryce made such a sensation. He stared at these girls who turned such strange looks upon him. As for Isabelle, at the moment she would not have hesitated at patricide, but that being out of the question, she burst into peal after peal of hysterical laughter.