“Will it shock you, Dad?” she asked.
“Rather late in the day for you to worry yourself about that, isn’t it?” he answered with a smile.
He struck a match and held it for her. Joan sat with her elbows on the table and smoked in silence. She was thinking.
Why had he never “brought her up,” never exacted obedience from her, never even tried to influence her? It could not have been mere weakness. She stole a sidelong glance at the tired, lined face with its steel-blue eyes. She had never seen them other than calm, but they must have been able to flash. Why had he always been so just and kind and patient with her? Why had he never scolded her and bullied her and teased her? Why had he let her go away, leaving him lonely in his empty, voiceless house? Why had he never made any claim upon her? The idea came to her as an inspiration. At least, it would ease her conscience. “Why don’t you let Arthur live here,” she said, “instead of going back to his lodgings? It would be company for you.”
He did not answer for some time. She had begun to wonder if he had heard.
“What do you think of him?” he said, without looking at her.
“Oh, he’s quite a nice lad,” she answered.
It was some while again before he spoke. “He will be the last of the Allways,” he said. “I should like to think of the name being continued; and he’s a good business man, in spite of his dreaminess. Perhaps he would get on better with the men.”
She seized at the chance of changing the subject.
“It was a foolish notion,” she said, “that of the Manchester school: that men and women could be treated as mere figures in a sum.”