“Now,” said the girl sharply as soon as the waiter had left, “who is your friend that sings?”
“His name's MacLachan. He's all right, only—”
“Bring him here.”
“But first can't I—”
“Bring him here,” repeated the girl inexorably. “I like his voice.”
Sadly the shattered seafarer retraced his course. MacLachan listened, demurred, growled, acquiesced. As the pair walked along, the tailor reeling a bit, the girl was busy searching for something under the table. She did not lift her face until the men were beside her. Then she rose and looked up at MacLachan.
“Dad,” she said.
MacLachan went stark, staring sober in one pulse-beat. But all he said was “Oh!” That is all, I am told, that men say when they are shot through the heart. Nelson slid a chair behind his friend's trembling knees. He sat down. Bending forward, he glared into the garishly splotched face of his daughter and put his hand to his throat, struggling for speech. A door behind closed, and a cheerful, boyish voice said:—
“Hello, little girl. Been waiting long?”
The wild-rose face dimpled and blossomed into sweetness under the layers of paint. “Hello, Jim-boy. Get yourself a chair.”