Zelda had little idea of the things that interested her father. He read the morning and evening newspapers through every day except Sunday. The Sunday papers he did not take. He subscribed for several religious newspapers of his denomination, and these, too, he read and pondered. Zelda knew nothing of his own family. He was the only member of it that lived in the state. His correspondence was carried on from his office, and the only letters that the postman left at the Dameron house were the envelopes that poured in steadily, bearing invitations for Zelda, an occasional foreign letter from some friend she had made abroad, and on the first of the month, bills for her own purchases at the shops. She always found it difficult to talk to her father; to-night she felt strangely inclined to say something that would vex him.
The maid went about the table in white apron and cap and waited on them with a grin on her face.
“Won’t you take some more of the apple sauce, father? Angeline, the apple sauce. Those were superb apples that came in from the farm the other day, father. I suppose the farm really pays for itself,—you are always sending in nice things from there.”
“Oh, not at all! Everything I raise is very costly, very costly.”
He looked at her suspiciously. At any mention of money or expense he put himself on guard.
“But the tenant you have out there must make his living—”
“Not at all. I can show you my books. I keep a faithful account; it’s been a loss each year since I took it.” He spoke defensively, in spite of himself.
“Oh, please don’t show me any accounts! They must be very, very depressing;” and she shrugged her shoulders.
“To be sure! to be sure! quite that!” He laughed with a real heartiness.
“I suppose many people have troubles about money,” she went on. “Making both ends meet, I think they call it.”