As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock, came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her governess, crying in her childish voice:
“Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday.”
“Thank you, darling,” replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim person, at that moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which she had just cut for the table.
Bracondale had been absent on official duties at Downing Street for a week, but had returned by special train from Paddington, arriving at Torquay at half-past three in the morning. He had indeed placed aside some most pressing affairs of State in order to spend his wife’s birthday in her company.
And hardly had she kissed her child before he stepped forth from the dining-room, exclaiming:
“Ah! good-morning, Jean. A very happy birthday, dearest,” and bending, he kissed her fondly, while she returned his caress.
“Gunter told me that you did not get home until nearly four o’clock. You must be tired,” she said.
“No, not very,” he laughed. “I had a few hours’ sleep in the train. I’ve just come down to spend the day with you, dearest. I must get back at midnight.”
“It is really very good of you, dear,” she replied. “You know how pleased we both are to have you at our side, aren’t we, Enid?”
“Yes, mother, of course we are,” declared the child, as her father bent to kiss her.