“Yes,” she said. “I shan’t go to bed yet if you are not going. We’ll wait together if you like. And, Father—I saw David.” She brought a chair up to the fire.
“And did he see you?” Cyril inquired. “You please my eye very much when you are happy and you’ve been a withered little object lately.”
“Well, that is really about all about it,” she said. “I’ve stopped withering. You do like David, don’t you, Father?”
“I’m devoted to him,” Cyril answered. “Do I understand that you have fixed it up?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Oh, Father, listen, what was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” he said, rather hastily, “but there’s a devil of a draught up those back stairs. I think I’ll shut the passage door.”
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“No, stay where you are.” He went out, shutting the door after him, shut the passage door that led to the top storey and met Strickland coming up. “Keep that door shut, would you?” he said. “Miss Teresa’s in there; and don’t worry her to go to bed. I’ll send her when I think it is a good plan.” He went back to the study.
“Was that Strickland you were talking to?” she asked. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“No, but I can’t do with her damned singing. I told her to wait until the Philharmonic was open. Now then, tell us all about it, Dicky; that is, as much of it as you like.”