"Think of your having to be reminded—by the very strangers you pick up," Mr. Prodmore groaned, "of what my daughter should pre-eminently be! Your friend, all the same," he bethought himself, "is evidently loud."
"Well, when she comes," the girl again so far agreed as to reply, "you'll certainly hear her. But don't judge her, papa, till you do. She's tremendously clever," she risked—"there seems to be nothing she doesn't know."
"And there seems to be nothing you do! You're not tremendously clever," Mr. Prodmore pursued; "so you'll permit me to demand of you a slight effort of intelligence." Then, as for the benefit of the listening walls themselves, he struck the high note. "I'm expecting Captain Yule."
Cora's consciousness blinked. "The owner of this property?"
Her father's tone showed his reserves. "That's what it depends on you to make him!"
"On me?" the girl gasped.
"He came into it three months ago by the death of his great-uncle, who had lived to ninety-three, but who, having quarrelled mortally with his father, had always refused to receive either sire or son."
