But the poor dear looks worried, what is it?"
"I didn't have a very good night," her father replied, "I dreamed a
lot!" Gladys looked at Miss Templeton and laughed.
"Did you?" she said gently. "What a shame! I never dream. What was it
all about?"
"Flowers!" John Martin snapped, "idiotic flowers! Roses, lilac,
tulips! Bah! I do wish you would have some other hobby."
Gladys looked at her aunt again, this time with a half serious, half
questioning expression.
"Shall I be a politician?" she cooed, "and fill the house with
suffragettes? You bad man, I believe you would revel in it. Don't you
think so, Auntie?"
"I think, instead of teasing your father so unmercifully, you had
better pour him out a cup of tea," Miss Templeton replied. "Jack,
there's a letter for you."
"Where? Under my plate! what a place to put it. That's you," and John
Martin frowned, or rather, attempted to frown, at Gladys. "Why it's
about Davenport--Dick Davenport. He's very ill--had a stroke
yesterday, and the doctor declares his condition critical. His nephew,
Shiel, so Anne says, has been sent for, and arrived at Sydenham last
night! If that's not bad news I don't know what is!" John Martin said,
thrusting his plate away from him and leaning back in his chair. "It's
true I can manage the business all right myself--and there's the
possibility, of course, that this young Shiel may shape all right. I
suppose if anything happens he will step into Dick's shoes.
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