"Run to daddy," she ordered, sharply. "Do as you're told, or I'll box
your ears."
The child made an unwilling approach. Ellen herself advanced, holding
her skirts genteelly clutched in her left hand, her eyes fixed upon her
husband, her expression a mixture of defiance and appeal. Burton
welcomed them both calmly. His tongue failed him, however, when he
tried to embark upon the most ordinary form of greeting. Their
appearance gave him again a most unpleasant shock, a fact which he found
it extremely difficult to conceal.
"Well, can't you say you're glad to see us?" Ellen demanded,
belligerently.
"If I had not wished to see you," he replied, tactfully, "I should not
have asked you to come."
"Kiss your father," Ellen ordered, twisting the arm of her offspring.
"Kiss him at once, then, and stop whimpering."
The salute, which seemed to afford no one any particular satisfaction,
was carried out in perfunctory fashion. Burton, secretly wiping his
lips--he hated peppermint--turned towards Piccadilly.
"We will have some tea," he suggested,--"Lyons', if you like. There is
music there. I am glad that you are both well."
"Considering," Ellen declared, "that you haven't set eyes on us for Lord
knows how long--well, you need to be glad.
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