She darted to the door, but reaching it, suddenly stopped, returned to the sofa, where the colonel still sat, imprinted a swift kiss on his mottled cheek, and fled, leaving him invested with a mingled flavor of freshly ironed muslin, wintergreen lozenges, and recent bread and butter.  He sat still for some time, staring out of the window.  It was very quiet in the room; a bumblebee blundered from the jasmine outside into the open window, and snored loudly at the panes.  But the colonel heeded it not, and remained abstracted and silent until the door opened to Miss Tish and Pansy—­in her best frock and sash, at which the colonel started and became erect again and courtly.

“I am about to take my ward out,” he said deliberately, “to—­er—­taste the air in the Alameda, and—­er—­view the shops.  We may—­er—­also—­indulge in—­er—­slight suitable refreshment;—­er—­seed cake—­or—­bread and butter—­and—­a dish of tea.”

Miss Tish, now thoroughly subdued, was delighted to grant Miss Stannard the half holiday permitted on such occasions.  She begged the colonel to suit his own pleasure, and intrusted “the dear child” to her guardian “with the greatest confidence.”

The colonel made a low bow, and Pansy, demurely slipping her hand into his, passed with him into the hall; there was a slight rustle of vanishing skirts, and Pansy pressed his hand significantly.  When they were well outside, she said, in a lower voice:—­

“Don’t look up until we’re under the gymnasium windows.”  The colonel, mystified but obedient, strutted on.  “Now!” said Pansy.  He looked up, beheld the windows aglow with bright young faces, and bewildering with many handkerchiefs and clapping hands, stopped, and then taking off his hat, acknowledged the salute with a sweeping bow.  Pansy was delighted.  “I knew they’d be there; I’d already fixed ’em.  They’re just dyin’ to know you.”

The colonel felt a certain glow of pleasure, “I—­er—­had already intimated a—­er—­willingness to—­er—­inspect the classes; but—­I—­er—­understood that the rules”—­

“They’re sick old rules,” interrupted the child.  “Tish and Prinkwell are the rules!  You say just right out that you will!  Just overdo her!”

The colonel had a vague sense that he ought to correct both the spirit and language of this insurrectionary speech, but Pansy pulled him along, and then swept him quite away with a torrent of prattle of the school, of her friends, of the teachers, of her life and its infinitely small miseries and pleasures.  Pansy was voluble; never before had the colonel found himself relegated to the place of a passive listener.  Nevertheless, he liked it, and as they passed on, under the shade of the Alameda, with Pansy alternately swinging from his hand and skipping beside him, there was a vague smile of satisfaction on his face.  Passers-by turned to look after the strangely assorted pair, or smiled, accepting them, as the colonel fancied, as father and daughter.  An odd feeling, half of pain and half of pleasure, gripped at the heart of the empty and childless man.