But Phyllis turned and looked over her shoulder, and seeing her father, darted laughingly to the door.
Colonel Lane was about to follow when his foot caught in the leash of the dog, and he had to disentangle himself.
Consequently, when he emerged, it was to see his daughter coming empty-handed from the first of the two big letter-boxes.
She glanced up from under an enormous hat-brim and smiled saucily.
“Going anywhere, dad?” she inquired innocently, as she tried to button a glove which was a trifle too small.
“I was going over to Brighton,” he answered briefly.
“Oh! then why change your mind?” inquired Phyllis.
“Because I want to talk to you about the letter you have just posted.”
They had started walking in the direction of the Clock Tower, and instead of taking the way to the railway station, Colonel Lane piloted his daughter across the tram lines, past the side of the Queen’s Hotel, and across to the spot where the two Albertines were hauled up.
Phyllis knew quite well that her father was seeking the long seat opposite the “Albany,” where they could sit and talk unobserved, for at this hour the band was playing higher up on the Parade, and it was there that the holiday crowd gathered.