The young woman turned and glanced at him curiously, as if she could not divine what he was laughing at.
"They are like children—such people. My father is like a child. He does not live in the world; he cannot defend himself."
Palmerston's skepticism rushed into his face. The girl looked at him, and the color mounted to her forehead.
"You do not believe in him!" she broke out. "It cannot be—you cannot think—you do not know him!"
"I know very little of your father's theories, Miss Brownell," protested Palmerston. "You cannot blame me if I question them; you seem to question them yourself."
"His theories—I loathe them!" She spoke with angry emphasis. "It is not that; it is himself. I cannot bear to think that you—that any one"—
"Pardon me," interrupted Palmerston; "we were speaking of his theories. I have no desire to discuss your father."
He knew his tone was resentful. He found himself wondering whether it was an excess of egotism or of humility that made her ignore his personality.
"Why should we not discuss him?" she asked, turning her straightforward eyes upon him.
"Because"—Palmerston broke into an impatient laugh—"because we are not disembodied spirits; at least, I am not."