Mr. Seton peered in a puzzled way at the letter he was holding.
"Your aunt appears to say—I wish people would write plainly—that he has business in Glasgow."
Elizabeth scoffed at the idea.
"Is it likely?" she asked. "Why, the creature's a diplomatist. There's small scope for diplomatic talents in the South Side of Glasgow, or 'out West' either."
"But why should he want to come here?"
"He doesn't, but my demented aunt—bless her kind heart!—adores him, and she adores us, and it has always been her dream that we should meet and be friends; but he was always away in Persia or somewhere, and we never met. But now he is home, and he couldn't refuse Aunt Alice—she is all the mother he ever knew and has been an angel to him—and I dare say he is quite good-hearted, though I can't stand the type."
"Well, well," said Mr. Seton, by way of closing the subject, and he went over to the window to take a look at the world before settling down to his sermon. "Run away now, like a good girl. Dear me! what a beautiful blue sky for November!"
"Tut, tut," said Elizabeth, "who can think of blue skies in this crisis! Father, have you thought of the question of drinks?"
"Eh?"
"Mr. Townshend will want wine—much wine—and how is the desire to be met in this Apollinaris household?"