“No, Peter, you must never come to Tahiti. He—he couldn’t bear it.”
“He?”
“Your father.”
“Oh—my father.” His imagination had not yet evoked his father. “I had forgotten him, for the moment.”
“Forgotten him! What extraordinary things you say!”
“Well, why shouldn’t I forget him? He hasn’t even taken the trouble to spend twenty-four hours in America to make my acquaintance.” Something acrid had risen in the cup, and Peter’s lips were bitter.
Her white fingers moved again to the folds of her veil, as if the frail mesh weighed intolerably upon her brows.
“If you forget him, of course I can never explain. He is all there is.” She indulged then in an appraising glance. “You look kind and good. I didn’t think you would be undutiful.”
Undutiful! It was her turn to introduce an unfamiliar vocabulary. “Undutiful!” Peter repeated. “What do you mean? That I’m expected to be grateful to him for being my father?”
She smiled. She lifted her hands. She all but applauded him. “Yes, just that!”