“Tell me what has happened. It can't be that your father is ill—or in danger. You are angry, Frederic; so it can't be that. What is it?”
He looked away sullenly.
“Oh, it's really nothing, I suppose. Just an unexpected jolt, that's all. I was angry for a moment——”
“You are still angry,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. She was a tall, slender girl. Her eyes were almost on a level with his own. “Don't you want to tell me, dear?”
“He never gives me a thought,” he said, compressing his lips. “He thinks of no one but himself. God, what a father!”
“Freddy, dear! You must not speak——”
“Haven't I some claim on his consideration? Is it fair that I should be ignored in everything, in every way? I won't put up with it, Lydia! I'm not a child. I'm a man and I am his son. But I might as well be a dog in the street for all the thought he gives to me!”
She put her finger to her lips, a scared look stealing into her dark eyes. Jones was conducting the two old men to their room on the floor below. A door closed softly. The voices died away.
“He is a strange man,” she said. “He is a good man, Frederic.”
“To everyone else, yes. But to me? Why, Lydia, I—I believe he hates me. You know what——”