“Nothing, sir! You see, she’s unknown. They won’t give her a chance.”
“She will return to lunch?”
The newsagent stared.
“Pamela’ll be home to dinner!” he said.
“The midday meal? Exactly. I will lunch with you, Crichton. My name is Captain O’Hagan.”
His mode of patronage was superb, incomparable.
—————
III.
PAMELA RETURNS.
Pamela arrived late, a dainty figure in her neat serge costume; but the very curl that floated across her brow, the limp little hand that held the music-case, spoke of dejection. Her charming face was not habitually pale, O’Hagan felt assured, nor were such glorious eyes meant to be dimmed with threatening tears.
“Hullo, Pam!” began her father heartily—and hesitated. “Why—won’t they take it?”