At length Roger’s voice came through the gloom, as gentle as a shaft of moonlight made audible: “Oh, Sheila.”
The silhouette was snipped in two as if by scissors.
“Ye-yes, dodther.” She had tried to say “Daddy” and “father” at the same time.
Roger’s voice went on in its drawing-roomest drawl: “I know that it is very bad play-writing to have anybody overhear anybody, but your mother and I got home first, and your dialogue is—well, really, a little of it goes a great way, and we’d like to know the name of your leading man.”
Winfield and Sheila both wished that they had drowned that morning. But there was no escape from making their entrance into the living-room, where Roger turned on the lights. All eyes blinked, rather with confusion than the electric display.
The elder Kembles had met Winfield before, but had not suspected him as a son-in-law-to-be. Sheila explained the situation and laid heavy stress on how Winfield had rescued her from drowning. She rather gave the impression that she had fallen off a liner two days out and that he had jumped overboard and carried her to safety single-handed.
Winfield tried to disclaim the glory, but he managed to gulp up a proposal in phrases he had read somewhere.
“I came to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”
“It looked to me as if you had both of them around your neck,” Roger sighed. Then he cleared his throat and said: “What do you say, Polly? Do we give our consent?—not that it makes any difference.”
Polly sighed. “Sheila’s happiness is the only thing to consider.”