“How can I show it to him?” she asked.
“You must,” I said. “After all, he is your father.”
“But it’s so—so—personal,” she said.
“Well?” I asked, when she came back a few days later.
“I’ve bored him terribly,” she said.
“What makes you think so?”
“He never knew what to say. Besides, his habits are fixed. I ruined his breakfast because he couldn’t read the paper. I would much rather he had read it, but he was trying to behave so beautifully and he made conversation instead. This means that he never caught up with the news all day, and that’s a very serious thing. I made the awful mistake too of opening the paper before he did, before he came in—this was on the first morning—and no woman, it seems, must do that.
“O dear, I’m not right at all. As a maffact, Dombeen, you’ve spoilt me. And I’m too impulsive. You mustn’t be impulsive with men, except perhaps just one or two, and those only for a little while and when they’re very pleased with themselves.
“I did other terrible things too. I used the telephone frivolously. I even rang up the exchange once just to ask the time, and he heard me. I had done it often enough when he was out, because my watch had stopped and his clock was away being mended; but he came in just as I was ringing and I never saw anyone so pained.
“And O! I left the electric light burning in the hall all one night. He was perfectly nice and kind and polite, but I could see that every day something new was being inscribed on his heart, like Queen Mary’s. I don’t mean our Queen Mary. I mean the Queen Mary who lost Calais—the bloody one.