“Oh!” exclaimed Steve, not knowing just how to take this remark.
“My daughter is not—beautiful. No. And she’s a demon. I’ll bring her here to see you and your sister, some day.”
“Thank you,” said Steve, turning red. Certainly this new acquaintance was odd and unaccountable in some ways. Steve wondered why he should bring a “demon” to the hangar, and why he described his own daughter in such uncomplimentary language.
Mr. Cumberford smoked a cigarette thoughtfully.
“Your sister,” he said, “interests me. She’s a good girl. Must have a good mother.”
“The best in the world,” asserted Steve, proudly.
“My daughter,” resumed Cumberford, “takes after her mother. Girls usually do. Her mother was—well, she was Burthon’s sister. Catch the idea? It was all my fault, and Sybil—that’s my daughter—blames me for her parentage. With apparent justice. Not a joke, Kane. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing, sir.”
“Speaking of Burthon reminds me of something. I don’t like the idea of your sister working there—in his office.”
“He has always treated her very nicely, I believe,” said Steve, “and Orissa feels she must earn some money.”