"Father's, I mean."
She was going to live with her father, who would not willingly allow him, George, to enter the house! How astounding girls were! She had written to him twice without giving the least hint of her resolve. He had to learn it as it were incidentally, through the urgency of packing. She did not tell him she was going—she said she must get on with her packing! And there, lying on the floor, was an open trunk; and two of her drawing-boards already had string round them.
George inquired:
"How is the old man—to-day?"
"He's very nervy," said Marguerite briefly and significantly. "I'd better light the lamp; I shall see better." She seemed to be speaking to herself. She stood on a chair and lifted
the chimney off the central lamp. George absently passed her his box of matches.
As she, was replacing the chimney, he said suddenly in a very resolute tone:
"This is all very well, Marguerite. But it's going to be jolly awkward for me."
She jumped lightly down from the chair, like a little girl.
"Oh! George! I know!" she cried. "It will be awkward for both of us. But we shall arrange something." She might have resented his tone. She might have impulsively defended herself. But she did not. She accepted his attitude with unreserved benevolence. Her gaze was marvellously sympathetic.