'Your mother's ideas are so strict,' smiled Fricker, wiping his mouth and laying aside his napkin. 'If she'd come in when I did—eh, Connie?' He shook his head and delicately picked his teeth.
'It's all right if—if you let me alone.' She came round to him. 'I can take care of myself, and——' She sat on the arm of his chair. 'It wouldn't be so bad, would it?' she asked.
'Hum. No, perhaps it wouldn't,' admitted Fricker. 'Do you like him, Connie?'
'We should manage very well, I think,' she laughed, feeling easier in her mind. 'But if you tell mamma now——'
'We upset the apple-cart, do we, Connie?' He fell into thought. 'Might do worse, and perhaps shouldn't do much better, eh?'
'I daresay not. And'—an unusual timidity for the moment invaded Miss Connie's bearing—'and I do rather like him, papa.'
Fricker had the family affections, and to him his daughter seemed well-nigh all that a daughter could be expected to be. She had her faults, of course—a thing not calculated to surprise Fricker—but she was bright, lively, pretty, clever, dutiful, and very well behaved. So long as she was also reasonable, he would stretch a point to please her; he would at least make every consideration on her side of the case weigh as heavily as possible. He thought again, reviewing Beaufort Chance in the new light.
'Well, run it for yourself,' he said at last.
Connie bent down and kissed him. She was blushing and she looked happy.
'Now run off upstairs.'