“I think so, honey.”
“I feel wicked when I think of him,” said Charlotte, still with the look which echoed her father's, “when I think of all he has made you suffer, papa.”
Carroll made no reply; the two looked at each other for a second. The girl's soft face became almost terrible.
“I think if I were a man, and met him, and—had a pistol, I should kill him,” she said, slowly.
Carroll made an effort which fairly convulsed him. His face changed. He sprang up, went over to Charlotte, took hold of her head, bent it back, and kissed her. “For God's sake, honey, don't talk in that way!” he said. “All this is not for you to meddle with nor trouble your little head with.”
“Yes it is, if it troubles you, Papa.”
“I can manage my own troubles, and I don't want any little girl like you trying to take hold of the heavy end,” Carroll said, and laughed quite naturally.
“Then you must not look so ill, papa.”
“I am going to have another cup of coffee,” Carroll said, and showed diplomacy.
Charlotte delightedly poured out the coffee. “Isn't it very good coffee?” she said.