McIntyre stared for a full minute at the doorway through which Helen took her departure.
“Well, what the—” He pulled himself up short in the middle of the ejaculation and turned to Barbara. “Go and get dressed,” he directed. “We must leave here in twenty minutes.”
“I am not going,” she announced.
“Not going!” McIntyre frowned, then laughed abruptly. “Now, don't tell me you were engaged to Jimmie Turnbull, also.”
“I think you are horrid!” Barbara's small foot came down with a vigorous stamp.
“Well, perhaps I am,” her father admitted rather wearily. “Don't keep us waiting, Babs; the car will be here in less than twenty minutes.”
“But, father, I prefer to stay at home.”
“And I prefer to have you accompany us,” retorted McIntyre. “Come, Barbara, we cannot be discourteous to Mrs. Brewster; she is our guest, and this supper is for her entertainment.”
“Well, take her.” Barbara was openly rebellious.
“Barbara!” His tone caused her to look at him in wonder; instead of the stern rebuke she expected, his voice was almost wheedling. “I cannot very well take Mrs. Brewster to a cafe at this hour without causing gossip.”