st treatise on Oriental china. Mrs Gordon
was knitting mufflers for deep-sea fishermen, and lending an
appreciative ear to Delia, who, seated at the grand piano, was singing
ballads in a very small but penetratingly sweet voice. It was part of
Delia's minxiness that she elected to sing songs intended for masculine
lovers, wherein were set forth panegyrics which might most aptly be
applied to herself. On this occasion she was declaiming that "My love
is like a red, red rose that's newly blown in June. Oh, my love's like
a mel-o-dy that's sweetly played in tune"; and so sweet was the air, so
sweet the rose-like bloom of her own youth, that her father's eyes
strayed continuously from his pages, and rested on her with an
admiration reverent in its intensity. "She is too beautiful, too pure
for this world"; his eyes seemed to say. "Can it be possible that she
is really my own daughter?" The mother's eyes strayed also, but there
was no reverence in her gaze. She had been a minx herself.

Terence was reading the latest popular thriller, and from time to time
diversifying the entertainment by kicking one of his patent leather
pumps into the air, and adroitly fitting his toes into it on its return
journey, an accomplishment on which he had wasted golden hours.

They all looked up and smiled a welcome as Val Lessing entered and went
round the room greeting each member of the family in turn.

"Good evening, Mrs Gordon. Good evening, sir. Delia, please! Don't
let me interrupt."

Delia smiled absently, and crossed the room to a deep chair which was
supplied with an admirable foil for white shoulders in the shape of a
black satin cushion. She had the air of being only partially aware of
Lessing's presence, but in reality she was acutely conscious of
everything concerning him, even to a certain air of impatience which was
due to the importance of the news which he had to communicate. Delia
was in love with Val Lessing, and was uncomfortably aware of the fact.
Val was in love with Delia, but remained as yet in comfortable
ignorance. Delia had always planned that it should be the other way
about. She had pictured herself being wooed with assiduous devotion by
a lover who refused to be daunted by a dozen noes. It was ignominious
to realise that she was now waiting impatiently for the chance to cry,
"Yes, please!"

Val seated himself, nodding carelessly at Terence, who greeted him by a
brilliant example of slipper cat