“Mph,” said the lawyer, pondering. “Do I gather that the young lady is unhappy?”
“If she isn't, it's because she has pluck enough for six people, and because she always hopes to get away.”
“And do you consider that you could support her?”
“I don't know,” said Bob unhappily. “I would certainly have thought I could, but there seems mighty little chance for a fellow whose only qualification is that he's been fighting Huns for nearly five years. I've answered advertisements and interviewed people until my brain reels; but there's nothing in it, and I can't leave Tommy there.”
“Tommy?” queried the lawyer blankly.
Bob laughed.
“My sister, I mean, sir. Her name's Cecilia, but, of course, we've never called her that. Even Aunt Margaret called her Tommy.”
Mr. M'Clinton made no reply. He thought deeply for a few moments. Then he looked up, and there was a glint of kindness in his hard grey eyes.
“I think you had better tell me all about it, Captain Rainham. Would it assist you to smoke?”
“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Bob, accepting the proffered cigarette. He plunged into his story; and if at times it was a trifle incoherent, principally from honest wrath, yet on the whole Cecilia's case lost nothing in the telling. The lawyer nodded from time to time, comprehendingly.