“Rubbish!” said Mr. Denison, shortly.
It was so seldom that the so-called head of the house ventured so near to an expression of adverse opinion that there was a short silence, which his wife broke in a dangerously dignified manner.
“Perhaps,” she began, with strong emphasis, “when the whole truth comes to light concerning his relations with other ladies, my opinion on the matter will not be considered ‘rubbish’ after all.”
Reginald, with the delightful relish of an innocent child for conversation not intended for his ears, had left off making patterns on the tablecloth with the mustard spoon, in order to listen and watch with his mouth open. He now broke in with a happy sense that he was making mischief.
“Oh, look, mamma, what a funny color Olivia’s face has gone!” cried he, pointing to her with the mustard spoon.
The girl got up and left the room. Her father, who could not bear to see any one unhappy, was miserable at the thought that he himself was partly the cause of his darling daughter’s grief.
“Olivia, my dear child, come down—come here,” he called after her from the hall as she fled upstairs.
She never could resist any appeal from him, so she crept down again, unwillingly enough.
“Oh, that woman, that woman! Papa, I must go away, I can’t live with her,” she whispered as she laid her head on his shoulder and received his caress and incoherent attempts at comfort.
“Well, dear, what can I do?” he whispered, apologetically, back. “You see, you were such a little thing when your mother died, and I hate a household without a woman in it, so that even—”