“Your father?”
“My father!”
“Kate!” cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, “Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?”
The language was coarse and common—the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.
“Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you.”
“Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you.” And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.
“Cousin! I must leave you.”
“Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go! Mr Smythje is impatient.”
“It is papa.”
“Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!”