“What's the rush, pater?” she enquired, coolly.
“Why, my dear, we are already behind our schedule, and you know Cornwall hates that,” he said in a low voice.
“Cornwall!” said Paula, in a loud voice of unmistakable ill temper. “Does Cornwall run this outfit?”
“My dear Paula!” again remonstrated her father.
She turned to him impatiently, with an angry word at her lips, caught upon Barry's face a look of surprise, paused midway in her passion, then moved slowly toward him.
“Well,” she asked, in an even, cold voice, “what do you think about it? And anyway,” she dropped her voice so that none heard but himself, “why should you halt me? Who are you, to give me pause this way?”
“Only a missionary,” he answered, in an equally low tone, but with a smile gentle, almost wistful on his face.
As with a flash the wrathful cloud vanished.
“A missionary,” she replied softly. “God knows I need one.”
“You do,” he said emphatically, and still he smiled.