‘On no account leave. Send Miss Jordan to me when she is better.’
When, about half-an-hour after, Barbara entered the room, she went direct to her father to kiss him, but he repelled her.
‘What did you mean,’ he asked, without looking at her, ‘by those words of the Psalm?’
‘Oh, papa! I thought to soothe you. You are fond of the De Profundis—you murmur it in your sleep.’
‘You used the words significantly. What are the deeds I have done amiss for which you reproach me?’
‘We all need pardon—some for one thing, some for another. And, dearest papa, we all need to say ‘Apud te propitiatio est: speravit anima mea in Domino.’
‘Propitiatio!’ repeated Mr. Jordan, and resumed his customary trick of brushing his forehead with his hand as though to sweep cobwebs from it which fell over and clouded his eyes. ‘For what? Say out plainly of what you accuse me. I am prepared for the worst. I cannot endure these covert stabs. You are always watching me. You are ever casting innuendos. You cut and pierce me worse than the scythe. That gashed my body, but you drive your sharp words into my soul.’
‘My dear papa, you are mistaken.’
‘I am not mistaken. Your looks and words have meaning. Speak out.’