“Where is he—Mr. Odd?” she asked, steeling herself to the question.
The look of gloom which touched the Captain’s face anew, confirmed Hilda in her certainty of infinite pecuniary obligation.
“Not at home. Travelling again, I believe. A man can’t sit down quietly under a blow like that.”
A flush came over Hilda’s face. Part of her punishment was evident. She must hear Katherine spoken of as the fickle, shallow-hearted, while she, guilt-stained, answerable for all, went undiscovered and crowned with praises. Yet Katherine herself—any woman—would choose the part Odd had given her—the part of jilt rather than jilted; and she, Hilda, was helpless.
“Papa,” she asked, driving in the dagger up to the hilt—she could at least punish herself, if no one else could punish her—“where is Katherine? Is she not coming to stay with us?” The Captain swung one leg over the other with impatience.
“I’ve hardly heard from her; she is with the Leonards in London. Odd spoke very highly of her; seemed to think she had acted honorably; but, naturally, Katherine must feel that she has behaved badly.”
“I am sure she has not done that, papa. She found that she would not be happy with him.”
“Pshaw! That’s all feminine folly, you know. She probably saw some one she liked better, some bigger match. Katherine isn’t the girl to throw over a man like Odd for a whim.”
Hilda’s flush was now as much for her father as for herself. She felt her cheeks burning as she said, her voice trembling—
“Papa, papa! How can you say such a thing of Katherine! How can you! I know it is not true. I know it!”