His tone disagreeably affected Pat's already harrowed nerves, but she replied to the question equably.
"I met him on the bridge. We were talking about John."
"Well, kindly understand that I don't want you to hold any communication whatsoever with that young man or his cousin John or his infernal uncle or any of that Hall gang. Is that clear?"
Her father was looking at her as if she were a snail which he had just found eating one of his lettuce leaves, but Pat still contrived with some difficulty to preserve a pale, saintlike calm.
"Quite clear."
"Very well, then."
There was a silence.
"I've known Johnnie fourteen years," said Pat in a small voice.
"Quite long enough," grunted Colonel Wyvern.
Pat walked on into the house and up the stairs to her room. There, having stamped on the basket and reduced it to a state where it would never again carry seed cake to ex-cooks, she sat on her bed and stared, dry-eyed, at her reflection in the mirror.