She told of their adventures in society, of the Blacks' dinner, of the reception, of her bridge lessons. Gertrude listened, saying nothing, but watching both her parents intently as the narrative proceeded.
Daniel, fidgeting in his chair, waited, nervously expectant, for the protest which he felt sure his daughter might make at any moment. But no protest came. Only once did the young lady interrupt, and then it was to ask a question.
“I suppose Daddy enjoys all this as much as you do, Mother?” she said. “Doesn't he?”
Mrs. Dott's expression changed. The radiant joy, which had illumined her face as she described her progress at bridge, faded, and she seemed on the verge of tears.
“Don't, Gertie,” she begged. “Don't ask me about your father, please. Enjoy it? No, he doesn't enjoy it at all. He has no sympathy for my aims and ambitions. He takes no pride in my advancement. To-night—only this very night, he said to me—Oh, I can't tell you what he said! Don't ask me, please.”
Captain Dan almost slipped from his chair in the agony of justification.
“I never meant it, Gertie,” he declared. “It just happened, I don't know how. I'll leave it to you; I'll leave it to anybody, if—”
For the first time his wife noticed his presence.
“Leave it to anybody!” she repeated wildly. “You'll leave it to anybody! I wish you would! I wish you could hear what people think of it. Why, Cousin Percy said—”
For the second time since lunch the captain forgot to be prudent.