That plan was followed diplomatically when she secured a private interview with her father, after the return on board the yacht.
“Daddy, dear,” she said, with a manner as casual as she could contrive, “let’s keep this Mister Higgins on board. He’s bound for New York, but in no particular hurry. We’ll get him there in about ten days.”
Mr. Blaise, who was a plethoric, fussy little man, adamant to all the world save his only child, 117 regarded her now in perplexity, his shrewd eyes a bit mischievous.
“I don’t imagine it’s to be the stereotyped romance, just because you dragged him out of the sea,” he said. “The chap has the makings of considerable of a man in him, and he’s good-looking enough to catch a girl’s fancy; but he’s not your sort. So, why?”
“Besides,” Josephine retorted, smiling, “Florence has the same right in him as treasure trove. That would make the romance too complicated.”
“Why?” Mr. Blaise repeated.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” the girl explained, with truth, if not all the truth. “He’s unique. I want to study him. Such knowledge is broadening—better than books.”
“Bosh!” was the comment. “You mean, he’s just a freak to you, and you’d like to look him over a little longer. There’s no harm in that, if it amuses you. But don’t be silly about broadening yourself.” He regarded his daughter critically. “And leave out the deserts. They’re too broadening, if you like. You’re getting plump.”
Josephine accepted this meekly, in her satisfaction over having her way as to the new guest.
“I’ll go and invite him, right away,” she exclaimed. “He’ll liven us up.”