“Exactly,” said the O’Malachy drily. “Have I won my bet, gentlemen?”
A chorus of affirmation greeted him, and Lady Caerleon laughed again—a hard, unmirthful laugh. Philippa looked at her anxiously.
“I’m very glad you’re better, grandpa,” she said; “but don’t you think you might have sent mother a telegram? Then we needn’t have hurried so, and we could have waited for father.”
“So!” cried another man; “and where then is the Herr Papa, little Goldenlocks?”
“Father missed the train, and we couldn’t wait, but he will be here to-morrow.”
“Aha!” said the gentleman who had wished to kiss Philippa. “There is something wrong here, Colonel.”
“How could I help ut?” demanded the O’Malachy. “I never dreamt of her arriving without um. However, ’tis only a day’s delay.”
“Father would never have let mother come alone,” said Philippa, up in arms at once; “but he couldn’t help it, for he didn’t know in time. And mother has been so dreadfully worried about him, and about you too, grandpa. It’s very bad for her to be worried, and she oughtn’t to be let do it.”
“Indeed! and who says that, milady?”
“Father says so, and he always keeps her from being worried, too.”