Here Effie May entered the arena, fighting as usual upon the side of her victim. "The girl's right. She ought to have her own allowance—as you were saying only last night, Dickie."
"Was I?'" murmured the Major. "Yes, yes, so I was! An allowance of—How much did I say, my darling?"
"Two hundred dollars a month," prompted his darling. "Do you think you could manage on that, Joan?"
The girl lifted shamed eyes to her step-mother. She could not bear to look at her father, puffing himself out with conscious pride.
"Very well," she said in a low voice. "I'll be a débutante since you wish it—I'll spend the money and wear the clothes you provide, and eat the food you give me—but understand me! I'm only doing it because I have no choice."
She suddenly turned and ran out of the room. The Major stared after her, blankly.
"What's come over the child? She used to be so sweet-tempered and reasonable, grateful for everything. All this nonsense about independence! What does she mean by it, anyway?"
"She simply means she wants a man of her own, like every blessed mother's daughter of us," explained Effie May comfortably, "and that's what I'm trying to help her to, and it makes her sort of ashamed because she's got to be helped. That's all!... Say, old pet—" she seated herself upon his knee, as was her cosy custom when opportunity offered—"who's this chap Nikolai, anyway, that's always writing to her? He gives her some pretty good presents. That piece of aquamarine he sent her when she graduated—it's worth a lot of money. Is he rich?"
"He's a very successful writer, I believe."
"Hmm! Old? Too old, I mean?"