“In the interests of Prehistoric Man?”
The implication was brutal. Two little red spots rose to Mrs. Fontaine’s cheeks. She conceived a sudden hatred for the rough-voiced, keen-eyed creature with her untidy hair and caricature of a hat. A retort; containing the counter-implication of Clementina’s resemblance to a prehistoric woman, was tempting. But it would lay herself open to obvious attack. She laughed.
“We are all helping Dr. Quixtus to recover from Prehistoric Man. He has just been attending an Anthropological Congress.”
“Umph!” said Clementina.
“Where are you staying, Uncle Ephraim?” asked Tommy.
“At the Hôtel Continental.”
“I’ll come and look you up—to-night or to-morrow morning.”
Why should he not treat Quixtus as hard-hearted uncles are treated in the story-books? Videlicet, why should not Etta and himself go hand in hand before him, tell him their tragic and romantic history, and, falling pathetically on their knees, beg for his blessing and subvention? To thrust so fair a flower as Etta from him—surely he could not be as crazy as all that? But Quixtus threw cold water on the ardent fancy.
“I’m sorry to say that both to-night and to-morrow morning I shall be engaged.”
“Then I’ll look you up in London when you get back,” said Tommy cheerfully.