“Oh, fiddle-sticks!” exclaimed Barbara. “I don't have to play chaperon for you two. Every one knows she is visiting us; what's there improper in your taking her out to supper? Why”—regarding him critically—“she's young enough to be your daughter!”
“Go to your room!” There was nothing wheedling about McIntyre at that instant; he was thoroughly incensed.
As Barbara sped out happy in having gained her way, she announced, as a parting shot, “If you can be nasty to Helen, father, I can be nasty, too.”
Colonel McIntyre brought his fist down on a smoking table with such force that he scattered its contents over the floor. When he rose from picking up the debris, he found Mrs. Brewster at his elbow.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks, everything is back in place.” He pulled forward a chair for her. “If agreeable to you I will telephone Ben Clymer that we will stop for him and take him with us to the Cafe St. Marks; or would you prefer some other man?”
“Oh, no.” She threw her evening wrap across the sofa and sat down. “Are the girls ready?”
“They—they are indisposed, and won't be able to go to-night.”
“What! Both girls?”
“Yes, both”—firmly, not, however, meeting her eyes.