“John will say what I say, I think,” she declared. “As for Mother—well, what she says won't make any difference, not at present. Good-night, Daddy. Now don't worry, and,” she repressed a smile, “be very careful and, if you must express your opinion of the Chapter, do it in the back yard or somewhere out of hearing. Good-night.”
She kissed him and he went slowly and fearfully upstairs. Serena's attitude of reproachful and self-sacrificing forgiveness he met with meek repentance and promises not to offend again. He got into bed, worn out and troubled, but with a ray of hope in his bosom, nevertheless. Gertie had come home; Gertie was going to do something or other, he did not know and could not guess what. At any rate she was with him, and he could see her every day. Perhaps—perhaps—still wondering perhapses he fell asleep.
Next morning at breakfast the young lady seemed to be in good spirits and, except for Serena's absence—Serena had breakfast in her room, a proceeding which was apparently developing into a habit—the meal was to Daniel quite like one of the happy breakfasts of Trumet days. Mr. Hungerford marred the captain's pleasure somewhat by joining the pair before they left the table, and to him Gertrude was surprisingly cordial and communicative. Cousin Percy, who had been, at first, rather on his guard, soon thawed and became almost loquacious. Gertrude and he found a kindred taste for pictures and art in general, and before the captain's second cup of coffee was disposed of Mr. Hungerford had invited Miss Dott to accompany him to a water-color exhibition at a neighboring studio. Gertrude said she thought she might accept the invitation, if the exhibition was to remain for a few days.
“Is the artist a friend of yours?” she asked casually.
“Oh, no,” was the languid answer. “He's a queer old gink—old chap, I mean—whose work is quite the go about here recently. Some very decent people have taken him up, I believe. He's worth meeting, so I'm told, as a curiosity. I've seen only two or three of his paintings, but they're really not bad. Some of the fellows at the club were talking about him the other night. I think you'd enjoy the exhibition, Miss Dott.”
“I'm sure I should. I should like to see the pictures and the—er—gink as well. Thank you very much, Cousin Percy.”
When they were alone, Captain Dan turned to his daughter in puzzled amazement.
“What did you call him 'Cousin Percy' for?” he demanded. “Thought you thought your mother and I callin' him that was funny; you said you did.”
Gertrude laughed. “Did I?” she replied. “Well, perhaps I think so still.”
Whatever she may have thought, it did not prevent her continuing to be very cordial to the newly discovered relative. He and she were together a good deal during the day. She seemed to really enjoy his society. The remainder of the time she spent with her mother. Captain Dan scarcely saw her except at luncheon and dinner. Once he found her in the kitchen talking with Azuba, and on another occasion she and Mr. Hapgood were in conversation, but for her father she could spare only odd moments. The captain did not know what to make of it. When, taking advantage of a fleeting opportunity, he asked her she only laughed.