“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian calmly.
He had every intention of retaining his early privileges, where Val was concerned.
“I should like to read some of the things you’ve written,” she said abruptly. “Lucilla reads your articles, and has always admired them.”
It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that anybody who read his articles should admire them, that he was conscious of receiving a slight shock when Valeria added:
“I gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lucilla always kept them out of his way.”
“She is devoted to him, I can see that.”
“Yes, of course.”
Something in her voice made him look at her, and she exclaimed, half laughing and half petulant: “We’re all devoted to him, Lucilla and Flossie and I! I didn’t mean the least shadow of a criticism of him. Only that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his level.”
It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of affairs that the Canon’s three daughters should have no worthier aim in life than the one implied, that something of his feeling was reflected in his face, and Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for the missing ball, found it, and returned to the tea-table and the group there.
The Canon was again speaking, this time to young Cuscaden.