"Blest if I know," Gower answered casually. "Except that we like to. It's a restful place, isn't it? You work harder at having a good time in town than I ever did making money. Well, we don't have to be hermits unless we like. We'll go back to mother and the giddy whirl to-morrow, if you like."
"We might as well, I think," she said absently.
For a minute neither spoke. The fire blazed up in a roaring flame. Raindrops slashed suddenly against the windows out of a storm-cloud driven up by the wind. Betty turned her eyes on her father.
"Did you ever do anything to Jack MacRae that would give him reason to hate you?" she asked bluntly.
Gower shook his head without troubling to look at her. He kept his face steadfastly to the fire.
"No," he said. "The other way about, if anything. He put a crimp in me last season."
"I remember you said you were going to smash him," she said thoughtfully.
"Did I?" he made answer in an indifferent tone. "Well, I might. And then again I might not. He may do the smashing. He's a harder proposition than I figured he would be, in several ways."
"That isn't it," Betty said, as if to herself. "Then you must have had some trouble with his father—long ago. Something that hurt him enough for him to pass a grudge on to Jack. What was it, daddy? Anything real?"