“Zee, I have sometimes hoped that you had a slight feeling of affection for me;” and Rodney Merriam’s face grew severe.
“How you do flatter yourself! Go on!”
“And I want you to do something for me.”
“If it’s sensible I’ll consider it.”
“I want you to go home and pack up and come down here to live with me. And I beg of you don’t talk about giving music lessons and moving to that Harrison Street hovel,—even as fun it doesn’t amuse me. Come now, be a sensible girl. How soon can you move?”
“You seem to be addressing me in the singular number. There are two of us to plan for.”
Her lips quivered and the tears came to her eyes. Here was the old question of her father, that had been a vexation all the long year through. If only she might be suffered to manage her affairs alone!
“Please let me go! You have been so kind to me—I should hate awfully—”
“But Zee,—we must be reasonable. You are young, and your way must be made as easy as possible—for the road’s a tough one at best. It seems a hard thing to say, but your father is no proper companion for you. I can arrange for him in some way; but I owe it to you, to your mother’s memory, to keep you apart. I haven’t anything else to do but care for your happiness; and your father doesn’t fit into any imaginable scheme of life for you.”
Zee laughed.