“Connie——” he stammered and took her hand. “Connie—you’re awfully good to me. You know I love you——”
“Why, of course, you dear baby!” She lifted her head with a quick, reassuring smile. “But for goodness’ sake run along and change your clothes!”
V
When his guests had gone, Mills, as was his habit, smoked a cigar and discussed the dinner with Leila. He was aware that in asking her to join him on such occasions of state he was subjecting her to a trying ordeal, and tonight he was particularly well pleased with her.
“They all enjoyed themselves, Dada; you needn’t worry about that party!” Leila remarked, smoking the cigarette she had denied herself while the guests remained.
“I think they did; thank you very much for helping me.”
Leila had charm; he was always proud of an opportunity to display her to her mother’s old friends, whose names, like his own, carried weight in local history. His son was a Shepherd; Leila, he persuaded himself, was, with all her waywardness and little follies, more like himself. Leila looked well at his table, and her dramatic sense made it possible for her to act the rôle of the daughter of the house with the formality that was dear to him. Whenever he entertained he and Leila received the guests together, standing in front of Mrs. Mills’s portrait. People who dared had laughed about this, speculating as to the probable fate of the portrait in case Mills married again.
“I’d got nervous about you when you were so late coming,” Mills was saying. “That’s how I came to be at the door. I’d just called Millicent to see if you were over there.”
“Foolish Dada! Don’t I always turn up?” she asked, kicking off her slippers. “I’d been fooling around all afternoon, and I hate getting dressed and waiting for a party to begin.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Mills replied dryly. “Just what did you do all day? Your doings are always a mystery to me.”