And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's
got himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are
you?"
It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more
cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to
detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more
vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw
the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again on her
lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy
spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was a short
pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have
been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm.
"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady
and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say
so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I
wonder how your father will take it when he comes out . . . or don't you
expect him ever to come out?"
At that moment, Mrs.
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