DADDY!
Early in the afternoon of the day after the fire, as Stephen Latimer sat writing in his study, a shadow that did not shift fell across his paper. Glancing up, he saw Poppea, who, coming in the door behind, stood looking at him as intently as though she would force him to yield up his thoughts without the medium of words. Latimer, who knew that it would be a trying interview, sought vainly to gauge her mood by the expression of her face. When he thought, by the wistful lines of the mouth, that tenderness was uppermost, the calm and searching look from her eyes revealed indomitable pride, the trait of her later development.
"Will you stay here?" he said, trying to gain time and turning Jeanne's special low chair with its back to the bright light, "or would you rather go down into the sitting room?"
"Here, if you please," she replied, yet making no move toward the chair. Then, as he sat fumbling with the papers, she took two or three steps forward so that she could steady herself by resting her hands on the table.
"Please do not try to be ceremoniously polite, nor look away from me. I know that you have something to tell me that you think I shall not like to hear, perhaps cannot bear. Be it so, but remember you are making it less hard by telling me yourself. Now you must speak at once, for I think if this uncertainty lasts another hour, my heart will stop through dread."
Latimer stood up and faced her, moistening his lips the while, as if trying to grip his words.
"It is mainly good news, not bad, dear child," he said at last. "It is the uncertainty of how best to begin coupled with fatigue of nerves that makes me hesitate. Perhaps you would better read the papers first"—pointing to the packages on the table.
"Where did you get them?"
Latimer told her as briefly as might be.
"No, I cannot read them until I know; the printed words would prolong that,—my brain is already on fire, I think. If I question, will you answer, Mr. Latimer?"