of port, passing by a large Anglo-Indian lady with spats, an abortive mustache, big feet, and a tailor-made manner, he heard her say to her companion:
“Such a jolly little girl that—what's her name?—oh, yes!—Warburton. And, would you believe it, my dear, she pals up with that bounder of a Wade!”
“You mean that Dragoon chap who …”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Good Heavens! You know, they shouldn't allow chaps like Wade to go to India. Wretched for the morale of the natives. But, with the Liberals in power, what can you …”
The financier did not wait to hear the end of the sentence. He forgot all about broth and biscuit and port.
“Have you by any chance seen my daughter?” he asked the steward in a positively dramatic manner.
“Yes, sir. I saw her on top deck two minutes back. Thank you, sir.”
And it was in the snug shadow of a life-boat that the irate father came upon his daughter, side by side with Hector Wade.
“Good—morning!” he said, with a strong accent on the “good” and a smile curling his thin lips.
But his daughter knew of old that this altogether, too consummate endeavor after genial ease was nothing except a cloak for a smoldering rage that might break at any moment.
It was she herself, therefore, who fired the first shot.
“Dad,” she said, “it's no use your saying anything to Hector!”
