As the manager bowed them into the office—a room of fair size—and, partially closing the door, made polite exit, Ware handed Daisy to a seat, and himself dropped into the swivel-chair before the manager's desk and took up the telephone.
"Hello!" he said, as he got his number; "that you, Mrs. Heathcote? Good evening; how's your neuralgia?... Splendid, splendid—I am glad to hear that. I say, is George about?"
Evidently George was at hand; for in a second or two the transmitter returned to Sir William's lips.
"That you, George? I say, are you busy?... Well, then, look here—could you slip around to the Cumberland Cafe, Osborne Street.... No, no, nothing about 'hay'; Cumberland Cafe, you ass.... Yes, that's it—can't miss it—big, bright, plate-glass windows, half-way between Wardlow and Pembina.... I say, that's very jolly of you, old man.... Yes, I—we—are waiting.... Yes: I said 'we'.... None of your bally business—that is, I'll explain when you get here. Make haste now, won't you?... Right-O!" Sir William hung up the phone and turned to Daisy.
"That was the Reverend George Heathcote, my dear," he said, "rector of St. George's. Do you know St. George's?"
Daisy knew it—a big Episcopal church, with beautiful chimes, that made Sunday morning glorious. Right in the heart of the fashionable district. Ivied to the gables, with a mighty stretch of green ground about, bounded by a massive iron fence. And its rector was familiar "George" and "old man" to him who was shortly to become her husband.
Daisy Nixon's heart bounded, and the color leapt into her cheeks. Three months ago, clad in an old smock of Jack Nixon's and with a cuff administered by Mother Lovina smarting and tingling on her ear, she had waded, on an evening that she remembered well,—because it was her last on a farm—down to a miry cattle-corral to sit in the rain and milk four cows. It was in this moment, as the recollection of that final ineffably drab farm evening slipped into her mind, that Daisy formulated a certain daughterly resolve with regard to her parents—a resolve she was afterwards able to keep.
"I should explain," said Ware, a touch of color in his cheeks and his fingers playing a soft tattoo on the desk blotter, "why I am doing things in this apparently hasty and stealthy manner. I have been expecting, for the last moment or so, that you would ask me to explain—and I may say that I consider it very sweet of you, my dear, that you have refrained from asking."