But Edith screamed, clapping her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of his voice, and ran up-stairs, sobbing loudly, followed by her mother. However, Mrs. Sheridan descended a few minutes later and joined her husband in the library. Bibbs, still sitting in his gold chair, saw her pass, roused himself from reverie, and strolled in after her.
“She locked her door,” said Mrs. Sheridan, shaking her head woefully. “She wouldn't even answer me. They wasn't a sound from her room.”
“Well,” said her husband, “she can settle her mind to it. She never speaks to that fellow again, and if he tries to telephone her to-morrow—Here! You tell the help if he calls up to ring off and say it's my orders. No, you needn't. I'll tell 'em myself.”
“Better not,” said Bibbs, gently.
His father glared at him.
“It's no good,” said Bibbs. “Mother, when you were in love with father—”
“My goodness!” she cried. “You ain't a-goin' to compare your father to that—”
“Edith feels about him just what you did about father,” said Bibbs. “And if YOUR father had told you—”
“I won't LISTEN to such silly talk!” she declared, angrily.
“So you're handin' out your advice, are you, Bibbs?” said Sheridan. “What is it?”