Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both.
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