” 174 < 21 > THANKSGIVING She padded softly up the old stairs, exhausted and elated. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial connections. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. He's got the gift of the gab. 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. .
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