“Oh—Norah,” he said with relief. “I’ve been looking for you. Here’s a letter from Harry Trevor, of all people!”
“Harry!” said Norah delightedly. “Oh, I’m so glad! Where is he, Dad?”
“He’s in London—this letter has been wandering round after us. We ought to have had it days ago. Harry has a commission now—got it on the field, in Gallipoli, more power to him: and he’s been wounded and sent to England. But he says he’s all right.”
“Oh, won’t Jim and Wally be glad!” Harry Trevor was an old school-fellow whom Fate had taken to Western Australia; it was years since they had met.
“He has two other fellows with him, he says; and he doesn’t know any one in London, nor do they. His one idea seems to be to see us. What are we to do, Norah? Can we have them here?”
“Why we must have them,” Norah said. She made a swift mental calculation. “Yes—we can manage it.”
“You’re sure,” asked her father, evidently relieved. “I was afraid it might be too much for the house; and I would be very sorry to put them off.”
“Put off Australians, even if one of them wasn’t Harry!” ejaculated Norah. “We couldn’t do it! How will you get them, Dad?”
“I’ll telephone to their hotel at once,” said her father. “Shall I tell them to come to-day?”
“Oh, yes. You can arrange the train, Dad. Now I’ll go and see Mrs. Atkins.”