Gertrude rose to her feet. Her arm was snatched from the captain's shoulder so quickly that he jumped.
“Daddy!” she cried, her cheeks blazing, “do you mean to say that you have been discussing me with—with Mr. Black?”
“I didn't start it, he did. He said—”
“I don't care what he said. Oh, the impertinence of it! And you listened! listened and believed—”
“I didn't say I believed it.”
“You did believe it, though. I can see you did. I shan't try to comfort you any more. You deserve all that is coming to you. And,” with a deliberate nod, “it is coming.”
“Comin'! It's HERE! Gertie, there's another thing: What about John? What do you think John would say if he knew you weren't goin' back to college?”
Gertrude looked at him. Her lips twitched.
“Oh,” she said, mischievously, “as to that—well, Daddy, you see, he DOESN'T know it.”
That afternoon Daniel wrote a letter. He said nothing to anyone, not even Serena, about the letter, but wrote it in the solitude of the library and posted it with his own hands. Just before sealing the envelope he added this postscript: “Whether you come or not, don't tell a soul that I wrote you this. And, if you do come, just let them think it was all on your own hook. THIS IS IMPORTANT.”