Dump - a Plain Girl by L.T. Meade

We were a little late after all, for the Professor was standing on the steps. It does seem so ridiculous to call your own father the Professor, but after all I had heard of him that day I really felt that I could not even think of him under any other title. He was dressed just as carelessly and with as little regard to outward appearances as though he had been giving a lecture to the Sixth Form boys in the college. His hair was rumpled and pushed back from his lofty forehead. His eyes had that somewhat vacant stare which, notwithstanding his genius, I could not help constantly noticing in them. His adorers -- and it struck me that the Professor had many adorers -- called that his "far-away" or his "abstracted" or his "marvellous thinking" look, but to me it seemed that it was his vacant look. But there! it was very wrong of me to think such a thing about father.

"He has come," said Miss Donnithorne. "Rachel, your father is here. I am more vexed than I can say not to have been ready to welcome him. I hope Nancy saw to his comfort. Jump out, child, and run up the path. Be the first to greet him. I will follow you immediately."