The same sort of thing can be done
again."
He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully
toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his
collar, he bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which
were wet.
"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There's no
difficulty. And here you go and . . . "
He turned his face away. "After all I am still de Barral, _the_ de
Barral. Didn't you remember that?"
"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must remember that there is no
longer a de Barral . . . " He looked at her sideways anxiously. "There
is Mr. Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can
ever touch."
"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does he belong to? There's
not even a Miss Smith."
"There is your Flora."
"My Flora! You went and . . . I can't bear to think of it. It's
horrible."
"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with feeling, because
somehow, obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her
own thought clothed in an enigmatic emotion.
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