“Hector?”
“Yes, dad”—a tiny finger indicating her companion who was trying to speak but was prevented from doing so by the firm grinding of Jane's right heel into his left instep—-“I mean Mr. Wade. You know him, don't you? I know what you're thinking, dad, and I tell you it's no use blaming him. I made him talk to me. I made him sit by me. Didn't I, Hector?”
“Daughter!” said Mr. Warburton, in a decidedly episcopal manner, “come with me at once.”
“I'm too old to be spanked, dad,” smiled Jane, “but I'll come with you, and …”
“As to you, sir,” her father had turned to Hector, “you—you are a rascal! An adventurer! You—you … to follow my daughter—to take the same ship—to …”
“When did you book your passage, Mr. Warburton?” came the younger man's cool question.
“Saturday afternoon! Why?”
“Because I booked mine Saturday morning. If you do not believe me, ask the purser. Good day, sir!”
And he bowed to Jane and turned on his heel, while the girl looked at her father rather triumphantly.
The next moment she had slipped her hand through his arm and was walking by his side.
“Dad,” she said, “don't be angry. I just wanted to find out something from Hector, and I did. And I am so glad you are better. Oh—come on! Stop biting your lips!”
Late that night—for, after all, there was real affection between them—Jane confided in her father.
