"Somehow or other," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "I feel more and more like a friend of Jean and you, and less and less like your father. Odd thing, isn't it, Frank?"
"A jolly fine thing," said Frank warmly. "By Jove, sir, I can't tell you how much I prefer it!"
"Do you really? Well, then, I won't worry about the feeling any more."
Mr. Walkingshaw had not given the impression that he was worrying about that or any other feeling, but one was bound to take his word for it.
"I enjoy the sensation far more myself," he went on. "It produces a kind of mutual confidence and that sort of thing. I hardly feel inclined to explain the cause of this improvement yet, Frank; but you may take my word that there is nothing in the least discreditable about it. In fact, when one comes to think of it, there's nothing so very extraordinary either. It's a perfectly sound scientific idea, perfectly sound; so you can make your mind at ease too, Frank."
As a matter of fact, Frank's mind had already wandered far afield from these interesting but slightly obscure speculations.
"Oh, that's all right, I assure you," he answered vaguely.
"It's a grand thing to know that Jean's love affair has turned out so happily," his father continued. "I can't tell you what a satisfaction it is to me."
"Yes, isn't it?" Frank murmured from the clouds.