Undine frowned: there was nothing more irritating, in these encounters with her father, than his habit of opening the discussion with a joke.
"I wish you'd understand that I'm serious, father. I've never been strong since the baby was born, and I need a change. But it's not only that: there are other reasons for my wanting to go."
Mr. Spragg still held to his mild tone of banter. "I never knew you short on reasons, Undie. Trouble is you don't always know other people's when you see 'em."
His daughter's lips tightened. "I know your reasons when I see them, father: I've heard them often enough. But you can't know mine because I haven't told you—not the real ones."
"Jehoshaphat! I thought they were all real as long as you had a use for them."
Experience had taught her that such protracted trifling usually concealed an exceptional vigour of resistance, and the suspense strengthened her determination.
"My reasons are all real enough," she answered; "but there's one more serious than the others."
Mr. Spragg's brows began to jut. "More bills?"
"No." She stretched out her hand and began to finger the dusty objects on his desk. "I'm unhappy at home."
"Unhappy—!" His start overturned the gorged waste-paper basket and shot a shower of paper across the rug. He stooped to put the basket back; then he turned his slow fagged eyes on his daughter. "Why, he worships the ground you walk on, Undie."