From below came the old familiar sound of her father taking off his boots and dumping them under the sofa. “H-rooch-flop ... h’rooch-flop.” ... That sound was bound up with all her memories of childhood.
Ten minutes later there came a cautious tap at her door, and her father entered in an intermediate stage of attire. He lit a candle clumsily and shone it down upon her. She did not move. He prodded her with his thumb in a vague, experimental way. She made no reply, though her eyes were wide open and staring into his.
“I say, Cathie,” he began, vaguely and nervously, “you’ve bin misbehaving, I’m told.... It’s too bad, you know.... Come now ... be a good girl and go to sleep.”
Pause.
Then: “Kiss me.”
It was the first time for many years that he had asked for such a thing. With no apparent reason at all the tears welled up into her eyes, tears that she had hidden since her tenth birthday.
She was just about to raise her head to meet his when a drop of liquid candle grease fell on her bare arm. The sharp, unexpected pain made her a prey to a sudden gust of tempestuous emotion....
“Oh, go away,” she muttered angrily, “don’t come bothering me ... I’m tired....” She crouched down beneath the bedclothes with her face turned away from him.
Mr. Weston retired a little sheepishly.
“Oh, well,” he said, “if you’re going to be sulky ... I suppose....”