“I hope you do not consider me presumptuous,” said Donald, a note of anxiety in his tone.
Wainwright’s hand reached forth to clasp Donald’s firmly. “No, I do not doubt your sincerity. An inordinate sense of pride has kept me in my present circumstances. This circumstance you have related has brought me to a realization that it is a selfish pride, as it has denied Connie the privileges to which she is entitled. There is nothing I can say,” he went on in bitter self-condemnation, “that can even partially condone or palliate my stupidity. I should have known that she would require proper clothing now that she is grown up. As a matter of fact”—he paused, his distress acute—“my finances are at a very low ebb.”
“How old is Connie?” asked Donald, hoping to relieve Wainwright’s embarrassment.
“Nineteen.”
Donald’s head came up with a jerk. “What!” he almost shouted.
“She is nineteen,” Wainwright reiterated, a peculiar expression in his eyes as he noticed Donald’s bewilderment.
“Nineteen!” Donald re-echoed, a bemused look on his face. “Great Scot! This is a surprise. I thought of Connie as being not more than fourteen or fifteen.”
“Connie’s healthful outdoor life has tended to keep her young, and her mode of dressing enchances the youthful effect,” said her father as he sat down wearily, a far-away look in his eyes. “Her mother,” he went on softly, a tremor in his voice, “was just like her; at the age of twenty-five she looked almost a child.” He turned to Donald. “No doubt you have wondered why I buried myself in this wilderness?”
Donald nodded. At this moment they were interrupted by members of the Sports Committee, who wanted Donald’s advice on a matter pertaining to the afternoon’s programme.
It was evident to Donald as he withdrew that Wainwright had been about to disclose his past history, a history which had been locked in his heart these many years.