“I've got too much on my mind to put up with that kind of thing,” said Mr. Flint, “and I won't be worried here on the place. I can get capable men to tend cattle, at least. I have to put up with political rascals who rob and deceive me as soon as my back is turned, I have to put up with inefficiency and senility, but I won't have it at home.”
“Fitch will be transferred to the gardener if you think best,” she said.
It suddenly occurred to Victoria, in the light of a new discovery, that in the past her father's irritability had not extended to her. And this discovery, she knew, ought to have some significance, but she felt unaccountably indifferent to it. Mr. Flint walked to a window at the far end of the room and flung apart the tightly closed curtains before it.
“I never can get used to this new-fangled way of shutting everything up tight,” he declared. “When I lived in Centre Street, I used to read with the curtains up every night, and nobody ever shot me.” He stood looking out at the starlight for awhile, and turned and faced her again.
“I haven't seen much of you this summer, Victoria,” he remarked.
“I'm sorry, father. You know I always like to walk with you every day you are here.” He had aroused her sufficiently to have a distinct sense that this was not the time to refer to the warning she had given him that he was working too hard. But he was evidently bent on putting this construction on her answer.
“Several times I have asked for you, and you have been away,” he said.
“If you had only let me know, I should have made it a point to be at home.”
“How can I tell when these idiots will give me any rest?” he asked. He crushed the telegrams again, and came down the room and stopped in front of her. “Perhaps there has been a particular reason why you have not been at home as much as usual.”
“A particular reason?” she repeated, in genuine surprise.