He looked puzzled. “It’s not a holiday, is it?”
“No, but it’s my birthday, Daddy dear.”
He displayed some interest now. “Is that so? How old are you today?”
“I am eighteen,” she explained proudly. “Serena made me a cake with candles. She brought it in at lunch. She said it might bother you, tonight.” She looked up at him quickly. “Do you love me, Daddy?”
“Surely,” he answered absently and shaking his iron grey head he ascended the stairs to prepare for dinner, muttering, “Time flies–how time flies.”
He joined his daughter again in the dining room in response to the gong. Serena had planned the meal with due regard to the fact that the day had been warm. A lobster, magnificent in its gorgeousness, reposed upon a bed of lettuce on the platter before Obadiah. A potato salad flanked it and a dish of sliced tomatoes reflected the color scheme of the crustacean. Dainty rolls, Serena’s pride, peeped from the folds of a napkin and the ice clinked refreshingly in the tall tumblers of tea as they were stirred.
Sometimes Virginia and her father chatted, but there were long silences. At intervals, Serena, noiselessly in spite of her weight, appeared to replenish or change a dish and to see that all things were in order.
As they waited for the table to be cleared for dessert, the girl said wistfully, “I wish that I could help somebody, Daddy.”
He looked at her curiously. “What ever put that into your head? You are a help to me sitting there and smiling at me.”
“Oh, but that’s not much. To sit at a table and smile and eat good things only helps oneself.”