I raised my eyebrows.
“Yes,” she persisted, “it’s an absolutely reliable factor. Now, papa—” Then she hesitated, realising the slip.
With an older girl I should have let her flounder, and enjoyed it; but she was so young, and blushed so charmingly that I had to help her out. “Don’t keep me in suspense about your father,” I said, in my most interested of tones, as if I truly wished to know something of that blot on the ‘scutcheon. This was my second mistake, and a bad one.
“We’ll leave Mr. Dabney Cortelyou out of the conversation, please,” she retorted, looking me in the eyes. Was there ever a meaner return for an act of pure charity than that?
By the way, Kate’s eyes are not Cortelyou. I wondered from where she got them. When we are angry we contract ours, which is ugly. She opens hers, which is—I tried to make her do it again by saying, “You should set a better example, then.” No good: she had got back to her form, and was smiling sweetly.
“They are furiously disappointed so far,” she remarked.
“What an old curiosity shop the world is about other people’s affairs! It’s no concern of theirs that my grandfather and your”—I faltered, and went on—“that my grandfather had a row in his family. We don’t talk of it.” When I said “we” I meant the present company, but unfortunately Kate took it to mean our faction, and knowing of her father’s idle blabbing, she didn’t like it.
“Your side has always dodged publicity,” she affirmed viciously, though smiling winsomely. Kate’s smile must be her strong card.
“We have maintained a dignified silence,” I responded calmly; but I knew that a dagger thrust below that beautifully modelled throat would be less cruel.
She tried to carry the wound bravely. “My father is quite justified in letting the truth be known,” she insisted.