"Will you have dinner now?" she asked again.
A voice suddenly answered her as though he were listening on the other side of the door. "No, no. I want no dinner."
She went down again, told Gladys that she would eat something, then sat in the lonely dining-room swallowing her soup and cutlet in the utmost haste.
Something was terribly wrong. Her father was covering all the rest of her view--the Jubilee, her mother, even Johnny. He was in great trouble, and she must help him, but she felt desperately her youth, her inexperience, her inadequacy.
She waited again, when she had finished her meal, wondering what she had better do. Oh! how stupid not to know instantly the right thing and to feel this fear when it was her own father!
She went half-way upstairs, and then stood listening. No sound. Again she waited outside his door. With trembling hand she turned the handle. He faced her, staring at her. On his left temple was a big black bruise, on his forehead a cut, and on his left cheek a thin red mark that looked like a scratch.
"Father, you're hurt!"
"Yes, I fell down--stumbled over something, coming up from the river." He looked at her impatiently. "Well, well, what is it?"
"Nothing, father--only they're still keeping some dinner--"
"I don't want anything. Where is your mother?"