"Why, what's the matter?"
"I have a daughter," Mr. Winder went on, a little brokenly. "You know that?"
"Yes, I know," replied Didcott. "But what of that? She's at school, isn't she?"
Mr. Winder shook his head. "No, she's finished. She's home for good."
"That must be very pleasant for you," said Didcott, politely.
"Very nice indeed." Mr. Winder produced his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. "I simply have to do what she tells me. You've no idea. I——" He stopped short, and looked everywhere save at the editor's face.
"Well?" Didcott leant back and smiled encouragingly. He guessed that Mr. Winder was going to confide some domestic incident to his keeping.
"She's nineteen, and quite grown up. And the way she has of getting round me! I can't resist her, the puss!" A smile of mingled vexation and pride played about the father's lips. "You see, she has no mother; so she gets her own way."
"You are quite right to let her have her own way," answered Didcott. "That's the only way to manage a woman."
Mr. Winder brightened. "You think so? You understand? I'm glad, Didcott. It makes it easier for me."