“Your mind evades the realities of the bars,” said Mr. Merrick, selecting, after a hesitation in the choice, a cake from the plate she handed him. “Once you have seen an ugly fact you turn your back upon it.”
“What better thing can one do with an ugly fact? What claim has truth or logic upon anybody in a world of atoms and their concussions? The only thing to do is to make oneself comfortable—with tea or mysticism as the case may be.”
Mr. Merrick received this flippancy with calm, convinced of an essential chime under superficial janglings. “You are, I am glad to say, Felicia, a woman who can think.”
“We do a lot of thinking,” Felicia assented. “How little else!” she could not repress. That her thinking had been for the most part lonely she was glad that her father never suspected, nor did he suspect a Puck-like fun she found in turning his own theories against him. He ate slowly now, his eyes raised in a train of thought that even his intelligent daughter, he felt, could hardly have followed. His own detachment from the shows of life was its theme. Suddenly, however, this contemplation was shaken by a more intimate, more stirring realization. “My dear Felicia,” he exclaimed, glancing rapidly at the tea-table and at the stand of eatables, “is not this the day for the frosted cake?”
“Grant forgot it, papa; you shall have it to-morrow.”
“There are only the small cakes, then?”
“And bread and butter.”
“It is really very careless of Grant, very careless. She should not have forgotten,” said Mr. Merrick, flushed, and as seriously aggrieved as a child. “Pray, speak sharply to her about it. I looked forward to the frosted cake to-day, freshly baked, warm, as I like it. It is very annoying. You are sure that she has not made it?”
“Sadly sure; I hoped you would not notice it.” Felicia looked at him with a touch of placid severity. “Have another of the small ones.”
“No—no, I thank you. I don’t care for them.” He had eaten three. The distressing episode curdled his mood for the rest of the day. A tactful and unexpected hors d’œuvre at dinner effaced the grievance. It was with a species of tender, maternal malice that Felicia resorted to these cajoleries, herself making the peace-offering. And after dinner when he smoked, and she read Leopardi aloud to him, the frosted cake was quite forgotten.