Sheila pouted. “That’s nice! Now he’ll think I’m something terrible.”
Roger put his arm about his daughter, who was nearly taller than he was. “My child,” he said, “I think you are the finest woman in the world except your own mother. And if it would make you happy and keep you happy I’d cut off my right arm.” Then he kissed her, and his eyes were more like a sorrowful boy’s than a father’s. There was a lull in the conversation and he escaped with the words: “Mother, it’s time for the old folks to go to bed. The young people have a lot to talk over and we’re in the way. Good night, Mr. Win—my boy, and good luck to you—though God alone knows good luck when He sees it.”
When the veterans had climbed the stairs to the shelf on which younger romance had put them, Bret and Sheila resumed that interrupted embrace, but deliberately and solemnly. It was a serious matter, this getting married and all.
The next morning brought a flood of sunlight on an infinitely cheerful ocean and the two lovers’ thoughts flew to each other from their remote windows like carrier-pigeons.
Sheila was perturbed, and as she watched Winfield approach she thought that his very motor seemed to be a trifle sullen. Then she ran down to the piazza to meet him. She carried a letter in her left hand. She waved him welcome with the other.
As he ran up the walk he took from his pocket a telegram. They vanished into the house to exchange appropriate salutes, but Pennock was there as housemaid, and she was giving orders to Roger’s valet, who doubled as the butler in summer-time.
So they returned to the porch embraceless. This began the morning wrong. Then Winfield handed Sheila his telegram, a long night letter from his father, saying that his health was bad and he might have to take a rest. He added, vigorously:
“You’ve fooled away time enough. Get back on the job; learn your business and attend to it.”
Winfield shook his head dolefully. “Isn’t that rotten?”