“Dear Dad! You are quite eloquent!” she said, and smiled up into his eyes. “And you don’t think I’m in love with your distinguished friend?”
He laughed.
“Not a bit!” he replied. “Nor is he really in love with you! He thinks you a pretty little armful of charms—which you are—but he wouldn’t know how to treat you as a wife, nor would he know how to treat any wife! He’s past all that. His habits are settled, and he wouldn’t change them to please any woman!”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t!” she murmured meditatively. “And those habits are rather trying—sometimes!”
Her father laughed again.
“Of course they are! The habits of bookworms are always trying! I’m a bookworm. My habits are trying!”
“No, they’re not!” And she linked her arms round his neck and hugged him. “No, Dad, you’re just the dearest and best man in the world to me! You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, you make me believe so!” he answered, submitting to her caresses with a very good grace. “But when the gout is on me—”
“Ah, that’s not you!” she declared, lovingly. “That’s the gout only! You’re not in it!”
“I wish I were not!” he responded. “But I tell you what, Sylvia,—it’s less violent than it was. Craig has certainly helped me to ignore it—if he hadn’t kept me at work—”