The banker rose, conscience-stricken. “No, poor girl, and she must be anxious. I quite forgot,” he said.
“Unless Rodd has,” Clement replied, with a queer look at his father. For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name.
“Well go and tell her,” said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone. And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to relieve his sister’s mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker uttered an exclamation of astonishment—and so did Betty. For Rodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by surprise, laughed softly.
“Betty!” her father cried sternly. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Well, I thought—you would know,” said Betty, blushing furiously. “I think it’s pretty plain.” Then, throwing her arms round her father’s neck, “Oh, father, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!”
“But that’s an odd way of showing it, my dear.”
“Oh, he quite understands. In fact”—still hiding her face—“we’ve come to an understanding, father. And we want you”—half laughing and half crying—“to witness it.”
“I’m afraid I did witness it,” gravely.
“But you’re not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father.” And in a small voice, “He stood by you. You know how he stood by you. And you said you’d never forget it.”
“But I didn’t say that I should give him my daughter.”