And now came Allan, who had been delayed by the garrulous but competent Mr. Custance. He gripped his father by the hand and thrust his hand through the old gentleman's arm.
He was kindly and courteous to Coombe, whom he did not like, and to Jobson and Cutler, whom he esteemed because they were his father's friends.
"You've seen Kathleen, father?"
"Seen her, yes, why bless her she was waiting on the steps to welcome us, that's what I call a welcome, Allan. None of your Society manners with Kathleen, no sending in of cards and being ushered in by servants. There she was, bless her pretty face, watching for us and ran down the steps, she did, and—and well, where have you been, Allan, hey? I hear you are going to make your fortune."
"I'm going to have a good try at earning a bit of money, father, and it can be done; I'll talk to you about it later. Now come in and have a look at the house, Mr. Coombe, I am sure would like something."
"Ha, ha!" said Coombe. "Guessed it at once, Allan, my boy! I've just been wondering how long it would be before someone made the suggestion."
"I am sorry," Allan said reddening.
They went in. Kathleen saw them come, but she was watching for the other visitor, the other guest, whom she told herself, she would not be half so pleased to see as the guest who had already arrived.
She took herself to task and yet she knew that she could not try and cheat herself. Her father was her father. It was Fate—respect for him she had none—that she could not respect him had been one of the greatest sorrows of her life. Affection for him she had but very little. She knew him too well, could read him too easily, understood his thoughts too clearly and she pitied him for his utter selfishness.
She knew, for she had been old enough to know, something of her mother's sufferings before death came, not unwelcomed. He had never been anything to his wife in the presence of others except polite and courteous, then he treated her with his usual charm of manner, on which he prided himself.