I almost dropped the cup when I saw him. The Dowager took it from me, saying:
"There, dear, don't be nervous. It's only—only—"
She got lost. It couldn't be my daddy—the Bishop was that. But it was her husband, so who could it be?
"Evening, Bishop. Hello, Henrietta, back so soon from the opera?" roared Edward, in a big, husky voice. He'd had more since we saw him, but he walked straight as the Bishop himself, and he's a dear little ramrod. "Ah!"—his eyes lit up at sight of me—"ah, Miss—Miss—of course, I've met the young lady, Henrietta, but hang me if I haven't forgotten her name."
"Miss—Miss Murieson," lied the old lady, glibly. "A—a relative."
"Why, mummy!" I said reproachfully.
"There—there. It's only a joke. Isn't it a joke, Edward?" she demanded, laughing uneasily.
"Joke?" he repeated with a hearty bellow of laughter. "Best kind of a joke, I call it, to find so pretty a girl right in your own house, eh, Bishop?"
"Why does he call my father 'Bishop', mummy?"
I couldn't help it. The fun of hearing the Dowager lie and knowing the Bishop beside himself with the pain of deception was too much for me. I could see she didn't dare trust her Edward with my sad story.