"Shouldn't I—ever?" asked the girl, in her soft, disarming manner. "I'm surely old enough!"
"The duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied sonorously. "Does parental duty cease? Are you not yet a child in your father's house?"
"Is a daughter always a child if she lives at home?" inquired the girl, as one seeking instruction.
He set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat.
"The duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long as she is blessed with parents."
"And what is it?" she asked, large-eyed, attentive.
"What is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "It is submission, obedience—obedience."
"I see. So Mother ought to obey Grandmother," she pursued meditatively, and Mrs. Pettigrew nearly choked in her tea.
Vivian was boiling with rebellion. To sit there and be lectured at the table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral interference, the minister preach like that. She slapped her grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the straight back—and refrained from further speech.
When Mrs. Pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the minister, "Have you read Campbell's New Theology?" and from that on they were all occupied in listening to Mr. Williams' strong, clear and extensive views on the subject—which lasted into the parlor again.