“Not just to her!” exclaimed Mills, with a lifting of the brows. “In what way have I been unjust to her?”
Shepherd knew that his remark was unfortunate before it was out of his mouth. He should have followed his habit of assenting to what his father said without broadening the field of discussion. He was taken aback by his father’s question, uttered with what was, for Franklin Mills, an unusual display of asperity.
“I only meant,” Shepherd replied hastily, “that you don’t always”—he frowned—“you don’t quite give Connie credit for her fine qualities.”
“Quite the contrary,” Mills replied. “My only concern as her father-in-law is that she shall continue to display those qualities. I realize that she’s a popular young woman, but in a way you pay for that, and I stand for it and make it possible for you to spend the money. Now don’t jump to the conclusion that I’m intimating that you and Connie wouldn’t have just as many friends if you spent a tenth of what you’re spending now. Be it far from me, my boy, to discredit your value and Connie’s as social factors!”
Mills laughed to relieve the remark of any suspicion of irony. There was nothing Shepherd dreaded so much as his father’s ironies. The dread was the greater because there was always a disturbing uncertainty as to what they concealed.
“About those little matters I mentioned,” Mills went on, “I count on you to help.”
“Certainly, father. Connie and I both will do all we can. I’m glad you spoke to me about it.”
“All right, Shep,” and Mills opened the door to mark the end of the interview.
IV
In Leila’s room Constance had said, the moment they were alone: