“Professional, by Jove.”
“Now, papa,” said Olivia, taking him by the arm, “you are the best and kindest of men, but you shan’t say ‘professional, by Jove,’ of Madame Koller, the very minute she has quitted your house. You know how often I’ve told you of my rule that you shall not mention the name of a guest until twenty-four hours after that guest’s departure.”
She said it with an air of authority, and tweaked the Colonel’s ear to emphasize her severity.
“But I am not saying any harm about her, Olivia.”
“Just what I expected,” groaned Mr. Cole.
“Perhaps her voice gave out, and she quitted the stage early,” remarked Pembroke.
“Not a word more,” cried Olivia sternly. “She sings delightfully. But—a—it was rather prima donna-ish.”
“Aha! Oho!” shouted the Colonel. “There you are, my dear!”
CHAPTER IV.
A week or two after the dinner at Isleham, Pembroke sat in his office, one afternoon, at the county-seat, with a letter spread out before him. It was very thumbed and illiterate, and quite devoid of punctuation.