"Don't worry. I guess I know how to talk to my own daughter. I'm as modern as the next parent, you know that. But there comes a time when every child needs guidance, and I...."
"Don't stay up too late, Dear," Marge interrupted, squelching a yawn. She kissed his cheek and left the room.
J.L. poured another drink and settled in a comfortable chair to wait and to plan.
Perhaps he should be imperious. On the screen of his imagination he saw himself. He was taller. His arms were folded high on his chest; his legs were spread wide like two sturdy trees. He had grown a full handle bar mustache. "Glory," he could hear himself say, "I forbid you ever to see that man again."
Unfortunately the screen showed the probable result. She salaamed before him, touching her forehead to the carpet, "I hear and obey O Magnificent One." Sarcasm was more than he could bear. If only he had some proof. If only Marge hadn't been so approving.
The slam of the front door dragged him from a nightmare in which Glory, having married Ernest Stringer, was drowning in a roomful of coin and currency. The level of money had just reached her frightened eyes.
In the dim light of the hall he saw her leaning against the door she had slammed. Her shoulders were hunched with sobbing.
"Glory, what's the matter?"
She looked up, saw her father, and ran to her room.
J.L. heaved out of the chair and followed, slowly. Her door was open a crack. He hesitated, then knocked lightly. No answer. He pushed the door wide enough to see in. She was perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, crying silently in the darkened room.