Miss Quest halted in her hearth-rug promenade:
"The doom of hypocrisy, sham and intolerance is already in sight. Hands off and mind your business are written on the wall. So I suppose Stephanie will think we ought to keep our hands off her and mind our business if she wishes to go on the stage or dawdle before an easel in a Washington Mews studio some day."
Her logic made Cleland anxious again.
"The trouble lies in this intoxicating perfume we call liberty. We women sniff it afar, and it makes us restless and excitable. It's a heady odour. Only a level mind can enjoy it with discretion. Otherwise, it incites to excess. That's all. We're simply not yet used to liberty. And that is what concerns me about Stephanie—with her youth, and her intelligence, her undoubted gifts and—her possible inheritance from a fascinating rascal of a father.
"Well, that is the girl; there are the conditions; this is the problem.... And now I must be going."
She held out her smartly gloved hand; retained his for a moment:
"You won't sail before Stephanie's Easter vacation?"
"No; I'll probably sail about May first."
"In that case, I'll come on from Bayport, and you won't need to find a companion for Stephanie. After you sail, she'll come to me, anyway."
"For hospital training," he nodded.