“Introduce me to your friends,” said the newcomer.
“That one used to be my old dad,” said the girl slowly.
The young man whistled as he drew in his chair. “Quite a family party,” he remarked.
“Who is this?” demanded MacLachan.
“My husband.”
“Your—your husb—” MacLachan took a deep gulp from the lemonade glass which the resourceful captain thoughtfully thrust into his hand. “Why, he—he's a mere laddie. Can he support ye?”
“He's making seventy-five a week every week in the year,” said the girl quietly. “And I'm good for about that average.”
“You? In what trade?” demanded the father slowly and fearfully.
“The movies. Both of us. He's a set designer. I'm an ingénue. Why else would I be all gommered up like this” (she touched her cheeks), “not having time to wash off my make-up?”
“How long have ye been in the business?” faltered MacLachan.