"Day after to-morrow!" Rod echoed.
"Yes," Norquay senior methodically deposited the ash from his cigar in a brass tray. "And in the meantime—" his even, mellow tone took on a slight acidity—"no more of this harebrained rapid-running with that Thorn girl in that gaudy barge of yours. It may amuse you, but it's hardly fair to the girl."
"Amuse me—well, it is good fun," Rod manifested a trace of bewilderment. He had never been attacked from such an angle. "But I don't see—unfair to Mary Thorn? D' you mean dangerous? We both swim like fish, and you can't sink a dugout. I know enough about swirly water not to run the rapids when it isn't safe."
"I wasn't thinking about the specific danger of drowning."
"What then?" Rod asked.
His father regarded him with a mild impatience.
"You're almost a man," he said impersonally. "It's time your taste in feminine associations rose a little above the half-wild daughter of a dreamy-eyed incompetent. Especially when it begins to attract attention. You seem to have forgotten, the last two or three days, that we have guests here."
"Oh, I see," Rod muttered. A flush crept up into his cheeks, as the implication of his father's words and attitude drove home. He was sophisticated enough to understand—and to resent—and to keep both understanding and resentment to himself. But he could not wholly conceal the small tempest that began to stir in him. He was dealing with a man accustomed to dealing with men, with personalities, and gauging them correctly for his own purposes. The boy's quick color, the momentary flash in his eyes, brought an amused smile to the elder Norquay's face.
"That's all," he said. "Most youngsters seem to find it necessary to makes asses of themselves about some sort of female sometime early in their careers. Don't be a common ass, Rod."
"I'll try not to, sir," Rod answered with as near an approach to sarcasm as he dared, "for the sake of the family."