There was a brief silence. The firelight flickered and leaped into flame, sending a warm glow through the room--the hues of the sunset seen through the window had paled into delicate amber like the petals of a daffodil. The restful pause was broken by quite an ugly sound,--a cough distinctly harsh and irritating. A gruff voice followed the cough.
“Dear me!” said the voice, querulously. “Humanity can never be original!--it always imitates! The old, old story!”
And the Philosopher, rather “hunchy” of shoulder and somewhat shambling about the feet looked into the room with a quizzical air of enquiry.
The Sentimentalist rushed at him with the light swoop of a bird flying from heaven to earth.
“Oh, how _could_ you!” she exclaimed, half laughing and half crying together. “How _could_ you--”
“Well, well! Now what’s the matter?” And the Philosopher fenced off with one arm her eager little hands ready to embrace his coat sleeve. “Be calm! Be normal! How could I--what?”
“How could you be so _wicked_!” she went on. “Yes!--so wicked!--and so--so--_good_!”
“I couldn’t,” and the Philosopher smiled quite a superior smile. “I couldn’t be wicked and good at the same moment! Sentiment again, you see! Dear child, you _will_ overdo the thing! You must really try to be less emotional! And how do you find your young man looking?”
For answer to this he found his hand caught and kissed, despite his efforts to avoid the impulsive caress.
“There, there!” he said, gently. “That will do, you foolish little girl! Durham, you’ll have your work cut out for you when you take her in hand! Now what about tea?”
“It’s ready!” and Sylvia pulled him along towards the daintily spread table. “All but the making--and I’ll see to that directly--”
“Well, begin at once,” said the Philosopher. “You needn’t wait for Dad. Both Dads are on their way across the garden--but they wanted you to meet the Oxford publisher first!”
He gave a short gruff laugh, and feigned to be more bored than pleased when Jack Durham grasped his hand, saying in a low tone: “I can never thank you enough, sir!”
And, at that moment “the two Dads” came in, making a complete “joy” party of happy hearts and radiant faces, while Sylvia, her fair cheeks flushing like roses with her inward delight, made the tea and dispensed it, Jack performing the duty of handing it round to the three elderly gentlemen who, like pleased spectators at a charming comedy, watched the proceedings with the absorbed interest of conspirators rejoicing in the successful result of a ripened plot.