” “I will have your reason for this,” he said. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. He bullied frankly. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. There was also the daunting task of getting dressed. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. ” He made his voice very low and full, and looked closely into her face.
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