“Papa,” she said, unable to formulate a definite sentence.
Gerhardt looked up, his grayish-brown eyes a study under their heavy sandy lashes. At the sight of his daughter he weakened internally; but with the self-adjusted armor of resolve about him he showed no sign of pleasure at seeing her. All the forces of his conventional understanding of morality and his naturally sympathetic and fatherly disposition were battling within him, but, as in so many cases where the average mind is concerned, convention was temporarily the victor.
“Yes,” he said.
“Won’t you forgive me, Papa?”
“I do,” he returned grimly.
She hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward, for what purpose he well understood.
“There,” he said, pushing her gently away, as her lips barely touched his grizzled cheek.
It had been a frigid meeting.
When Jennie went out into the kitchen after this very trying ordeal she lifted her eyes to her waiting mother and tried to make it seem as though all had been well, but her emotional disposition got the better of her.
“Did he make up to you?” her mother was about to ask; but the words were only half out of her mouth before her daughter sank down into one of the chairs close to the kitchen table and, laying her head on her arm, burst forth into soft, convulsive, inaudible sobs.