“Alice is here,” she cried, “and Monty Vaughan with her.”
Nora was a pretty, clever girl of two and twenty with the up-to-date habit of slangy smartness fully developed and the customary lack of reticence over her love-affairs or those of anyone else in whom she was interested. But for all her pert sayings few girls were more generally liked than she, for the reason that she was genuine and wholesome.
“Fine,” Michael said heartily. “Where are they? How is she? Was it a good voyage?”
A moment later his wife had rushed into his arms.
“You dear old thing,” she exclaimed affectionately.
“By George! I’m glad to see you,” he said, “you’ve been away for ages.”
“You seem to have survived it well enough,” she laughed.
“Tell me everything you’ve done,” he insisted.
While she tried to satisfy this comprehensive order, Monty was assuring Nora how delighted he was to see her.
“It’s bully to find you here,” he said, shaking her hand. “I nearly hugged you.”