Felix looked at him in surprise.
Rose-Ann’s father turned around to face him. “I’m an old man,” he said apologetically, “and a priest. You can’t expect me to take things like that as seriously as you young folks do. I hear about the sins of the flesh too often to be very much impressed with them.”
“I just thought you ought to know,” murmured Felix.
“Well, now, to get to the point,” said Mr. Prentiss, “what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Felix. “I’m trying to consider Rose-Ann’s happiness.... She seems to be able to get along without me....”
“Seems to be? seems to be? You don’t seem so certain of it yourself?”
“If she can be happy with some one else, why should I interfere?” Felix muttered.
“Who is this some one else?” asked Rose-Ann’s father, taking up his march across the room. “Some one in California?”
“Yes, a poet.... I’ve my own little system of espionage, too. I got very chummy with the art editor of the Motion Picture World before he left, and he writes me all the gossip.... Besides I’ve Rose-Ann’s description of him in her last letter to me—we’re still friends, you know. ‘Tall, awkward, black-haired, blazing black-eyed’—sounds quite romantic.”
“Another one of her young geniuses,” said Rose-Ann’s father with a sigh.