It was a futile threat, and Claire signified as much by jerking her shoulder in a scornful and derogatory manner before stumping back to the house with all the honours of war. She knew—and Mr. Braddock knew that she knew—that complaints respecting her favourite daughter would be coldly received by Mrs. Lippett.

Mr. Braddock withdrew from the window, and presently appeared in the garden, beautifully arrayed.

“Why, Willoughby,” said Kay admiringly, “you look wonderful!”

The kindly compliment did much to soothe Mr. Braddock’s wounded feelings.

“No, really?” he said; and felt, as he had so often felt before, that Kay was a girl in a million, and that{40} if only the very idea of matrimony did not scare a fellow so confoundedly, a fellow might very well take a chance and see what would happen if he asked her to marry him.

{40}

“And the speech sounded fine.”

“Really? You know, I got a sudden fear that my voice might not carry.”

“It carries,” Kay assured him.

The clouds which her compliments had chased from Mr. Braddock’s brow gathered again.

“I say, Kay, you know, you really ought to do something about that girl Clara. She’s impossible. I mean, throwing onions at a fellow.”

“You mustn’t mind. Don’t worry about her; it’ll make you forget your speech. How long are you supposed to talk?”

“About ten minutes, I imagine. You know, this is going to just about kill me.”

“What you must do is drink lots and lots of champagne.”

“But it makes me spotty.”

“Well, be spotty. I shan’t mind.”

Mr. Braddock considered.

“I will,” he said. “It’s a very good idea. Well, I suppose I ought to be going.”

“You’ve got your key? That’s right. You won’t be back till pretty late, of course. I’ll go and tell Claire not to bolt the door.”

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