“Yes, certainly. Good Heavens, it is nearly twelve. I must really say good-bye, Mr. Carrington; I hope—”
“One moment, sir. I won’t mention any name, but perhaps you are just as wise as I am. And what’s more, Mr. Burt, from what I’ve heard, that gentleman that we know of has just been treated as he tried to treat a better man than himself. It was his wife, they say—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Carrington, but some one is calling you, I think.”
“They can wait. Now—”
“To be frank with you, Mr. Carrington, I can’t.”
“Oh, well, sir, if you are in such a hurry, I’ll postpone my remarks. I was only going to say—”
But Mr. Burt gave him a wave of the hand, and fled.
A girl of seventeen came down the path from the house, between the standard roses, her black hair already gathered up tentatively at the back of a brown neck, and the smartness of her blouse and collar betraying the fact that she considered herself a mature and very eligible woman.
“Dad, are you deaf?”
Mr. Carrington turned with the leisurely composure of a father.