"Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. 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. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. He woke up with a start and the alarm clock read 4:46 P.
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