“It always is. I should know that by this time without asking. Some men make business their god, although it will prove a god of clay to call upon when the end comes. There is such a thing as duty as well as business, and a man should have some little thought for his wife and his home.”
This statement seemed so incontrovertible that Sartwell made no effort to combat it. He sat there with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hands clasped supporting his knee. This attitude Mrs. Sartwell always regarded as the last refuge of the scoffer—an attitude he would be called upon to account for, as a sinner must account for evil deeds.
“Father has had more than usual to worry him at the office to-day,” said Edna. She stood by the table, having removed her hat and gloves.
A look of mild surprise came over Mrs. Sart-well’s face. She turned her head slowly around, and coldly scrutinized her step-daughter from head to foot. She apparently became aware of her presence for the first time, which may be explained by the fact that the young woman entered the room behind her father.
“Edna,” said Mrs. Sartwell, “how often have I told you not to put your hat and gloves on the diningroom table? There is a place for everything. I am sure that when you visit your father’s office, which you are so fond of doing, you find everything in its place, for he is at least methodical. You certainly do not take your disorderly habits from him, and everybody, except perhaps your father and yourself, admits that you live in an orderly household. How did you get that stain on your frock?”
Edna looked quickly down at her skirt; the hansom wheel had, alas! left its mark. Two-and-six an hour does not represent all the iniquities of a hansom on a muddy day.
“You are my despair, Edna, with your carelessness, and no one knows how it hurts me to say so. That frock you have had on only——”
“Edna,” cried her father, peremptorily, “are you hungry?”
“No, father.”
“Sure?”