Mr. Da Souza lingered for a moment behind and laid his finger upon his nose.
“It ain't no use, my dears,” he whispered confidentially. “He's fairly got the hump. Between you and me he'd give a bit not to have us, but me and him being old friends—you see, we know a bit about one another.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?” Miss Montressor remarked, with a toss of her head. “Well, you and your wife and your little chit of a daughter are welcome to him so far as we are concerned, aren't they, Flossie?”
“Well, I should say so,” agreed the young lady, who rather affected Americanisms.
Da Souza stroked his little imperial, and winked solemnly.
“You are young ladies of spirit,” he declared. “Now—”
“Hiram!”
“I am coming, my dear,” he called over his shoulder. “One word more, my charming young friends! No. 7, Racket's Court, City, is my address. Look in sometime when you're that way, and we'll have a bit of lunch together, and just at present take my advice. Get back to London and write him from there. He is not in a good humour at present.”
“We are much obliged, Mr. Da Souza,” the young lady answered loftily. “As we have engagements in London this afternoon, we may as well go now—eh, Flossie?”
“Right along,” answered the young lady, “I'm with you, but as to writing Mr. Trent, you can tell him from me, Mr. Da Souza, that we want to have nothing more to do with him. A fellow that can treat ladies as he has treated us is no gentleman. You can tell him that. He's an ignorant, common fellow, and for my part I despise him.”
“Same here,” echoed Miss Montressor, heartily. “We ain't used to associate with such as him!”
“Hiram!”
Mr. Da Souza raised his hat and bowed; the ladies were tolerably gracious and the fly drove off. Whereupon Mr. Da Souza followed his wife and daughter along the drive and caught them up upon the doorstep. With mingled feelings of apprehension and elation he ushered them into the morning-room where Trent was standing
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