“I? Oh, no! Indeed, no! I like to think of beautiful things more than of ugly ones—that’s all!”
“I’m afraid your thoughts run in a mistaken direction,” said Jack’s father, rubbing his nose violently with a multi-coloured silk handkerchief. “Beautiful things are rare,—ugly things are of every day. Look at me for instance! I’m an ugly thing—”
She made a pretty gesture of smiling protest.
“I am!” he persisted. “But that Oxford chap is uglier!”
She laughed outright—then made a warning sign with a small uplifted finger, as just then the Philosopher strolled into the room. Jack’s father eyed him up and down.
“Good-morning, sir!” he said.
“Good-morning!” returned the Philosopher, condescendingly. “I think I saw you engaged in the gentle piscatorial art during the summer,—in short, fishing from a boat on the river—but I have not the pleasure—”
The Sentimentalist hastened to explain. He was the father of Jack. Oh, indeed! That was it? This little, lean, gimlet-eyed old man was Jack’s father! The Philosopher became cheerful—almost jocose.
“I congratulate you,” he said, “on the departure of your son for France. It must be very gratifying to you!”
“It is!” and the sharp American glance “sized him up” as it were in a second. “He’s my only—and I’m glad he’s got grit in him.”