"Jack, eh?" Gower passed over the direct question. "You must be getting on. Have you been seeing much of that young man lately?"
"What does that matter?" Betty returned impatiently. "Of course I see him. Is there any reason I shouldn't?"
Gower picked up a brass poker. He leaned forward, digging aimlessly at the fire, stirring up tiny cascades of sparks that were sucked glowing into the black chimney throat.
"Perhaps no reason that would strike you as valid," he said slowly. "Still—I don't know. Do you like him?"
"You won't answer my questions," Betty complained. "Why should I answer yours?"
"There are plenty of nice young fellows in your own crowd," Gower went on, still poking mechanically at the fire. "Why pick on young MacRae?"
"You're evading, daddy," Betty murmured. "Why shouldn't I pick on Jack MacRae if I like him—if he likes me? That's what I'm trying to find out."
"Does he?" Gower asked pointblank.
"Yes," Betty admitted in a reluctant whisper. "He does—but—why don't you tell me, daddy, what I'm up against, as you would say? What did you ever do to old Donald MacRae that his son should have a feeling that is stronger than love?"
"You think he loves you?"