George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. “I s’pose he’s some old widower!” he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious enough to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization. “Some old widower!”
Lucy became serious at once. “Yes, he is a widower,” she said. “I ought to have told you before; he’s my father.”
George stopped laughing abruptly. “Well, that’s a horse on me. If I’d known he was your father, of course I wouldn’t have made fun of him. I’m sorry.”
“Nobody could make fun of him,” she said quietly.
“Why couldn’t they?”
“It wouldn’t make him funny: it would only make themselves silly.”
Upon this, George had a gleam of intelligence. “Well, I’m not going to make myself silly any more, then; I don’t want to take chances like that with you. But I thought he was the Sharon girls’ uncle. He came with them—”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m always late to everything: I wouldn’t let them wait for me. We’re visiting the Sharons.”
“About time I knew that! You forget my being so fresh about your father, will you? Of course he’s a distinguished looking man, in a way.”
Lucy was still serious. “In a way?’” she repeated. “You mean, not in your way, don’t you?”