She went out with her tray. Jean turned, white-faced, to her father, "I wish she wouldn't say such things—"
"My dear, I am afraid you don't quite do her justice."
"Oh, well, we won't talk about her. I've got to go to bed, Daddy."
She kissed him wistfully. "Sometimes I think there are two of you, the one that likes me, and the one that likes Hilda."
With his hands on her shoulders, he gave an easy laugh. "Who knows? But you mustn't have it on your mind. It isn't good for you."
"I shall always have you on my mind—."
"But not to worry about, baby. I'm not worth it—."
Hilda came in with the evening paper. "Have you read it, Doctor?"
"No." He glanced at the headlines and his face grew hard. "More frightfulness," he said, stormily. "If I had my way, it should be an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every man they have tortured, there should be one of their men—tortured. For every child mutilated, one of theirs—mutilated. For every woman—."
He stopped. Jean had caught hold of his arm. "Don't, Daddy," she said thickly, "it makes me afraid of you." She covered her face with her hands.