“Oh, well—wait and see. Time enough when you're twenty-one, and your own mistress; Bob will have had a chance to make good by then. I—I can't oppose my wife in the matter—she says she's not strong enough to do without your help.”
“But she never seems satisfied with me.”
Mark Rainham rose with an irritably nervous movement.
“Oh, no one is ever perfect. I suspect, if each of you went a little way to meet the other, things would be better. Your stepmother says her nerves are all wrong, and I'm sure you do take a great deal of trouble off her shoulders.”
“Then you won't let me go?” The girl's low voice was relentless, and her father wriggled as though he were a beetle and she were pinning him down.
“I—I'm afraid it's out of the question, Cecilia. I should have to be very satisfied first that Bob could offer you a home—and by that time he'll probably be thinking of getting married, and won't want you. Why can't you settle down comfortably to living at home?”
“There isn't any home for me apart from Bob,” said the girl.
“Well, I can't help it.” Mark Rainham's voice had a hopeless tone. He walked to the door, and then half turned. “If you can make my wife agree to your going, I won't forbid it. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Cecilia. The slow footsteps went up the stairs, and she turned to her darning with a lip that curled in scorn.
“Well, that let's me out. I don't owe you anything—not even a good-bye note on my pincushion,” she said presently; and laughed a little. She folded a finished pair of socks deliberately, and, rising, stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. “Two more days,” she whispered. She switched off the light, and crept noiselessly upstairs.