How well Victoria recalled that first visit, and how she had wondered about the cause of it! So her father and Austen Vane had quarrelled from the first.
“I'm sure he didn't mean to be insolent,” she said, in a low voice. “He isn't at all that sort.”
“I don't know what sort he is, except that he isn't my sort,” Mr. Flint retorted, intent upon the subject which had kindled his anger earlier in the day. “I don't pretend to understand him. He could probably have been counsel for the road if he had behaved decently. Instead, he starts in with suits against us. He's hit upon something now.”
The president of the Northeastern dug savagely into the ground with his stick, and suddenly perceived that his daughter had her face turned away from his, towards the mountain.
“Well, I won't bore you with that.”
She turned with a look in her eyes that bewildered him.
“You're not—boring me,” she said.
“I didn't intend to go into all that,” he explained more calmly, “but the last few days have been trying, we've got to expect the wind to blow from all directions.”
Victoria smiled at him faintly.
“I have told you,” she said, “that what you need is a trip abroad. Perhaps some day you will remember it.”