“Father’s a creature of habit, I find. He always goes,—and to prayer meeting, and to all those things.”
“Ah, very likely. I suppose he doesn’t insist on the prayer meetings for you.”
“No, but I’ve volunteered! I’m to begin next Thursday night. I’m sure I shall enjoy them.”
Merriam looked at her gravely. When she spoke in this way, softly, with her lingering, caressing note at the end of sentences, he did not know what to make of her. He was half disposed to believe she was chaffing him; for she was too clever to be deceived by her father,—for very long, at least. Rodney Merriam was expecting daily that she would throw him over and cease trying to make the best of him and his ugly, forbidding home. His wrath rose every time he reviewed the situation and Zelda’s reply just now had sent a wave of hot blood to his face. But she was a Merriam, he remembered. She put her arms about his neck and kissed him good night.
Morris went with them to the carriage. Mrs. Forrest had brought Zelda and was taking her home. Merriam waited for Morris in the library.
“Sit down, lad,” said the old gentleman; “don’t begin running away.”
“Very good. I want to leave you comfortable; but I must be going—”
“Going? No! I refuse to be left here alone yet.”
The Japanese boy brought whisky and water, and the old man scolded Morris for taking Scotch, which he pronounced a barbarous liquor, unfit for Americans.
“Well?” he said finally, slowly sipping his own whisky.