"Did your father teach you those things?"
"Some of them."
"And to affect mannish clothes, and smoke cigarettes with your feet on the table?"
Jean flaunted an unregenerate grin. "You've heard more than you let on, I guess. But you wouldn't have asked that last question if you'd known him. He wasn't that sort. I did those things after—after he went. I didn't really care for the cigarettes; I mainly wanted to shock that sheep, Amelia. Besides, I only smoked in my own room. I had a bully room—all posters and foils and guns. That reminds me," she added, with a quick change of tone. "That woman who comes in here—the matron—took something of mine. I want it back."
"What was it?"
"A little clay bust my father made."
"Was he a sculptor?"
"No, a druggist; but he could model. You'll make her give it back?"
"Is it the likeness of a man?"
"Yes, of dad."