Sometimes she
worked in the rear room. It was always a great joke to feel that she
was really helping. In all her life her father had never let her do a
useful thing.
The table was lighted with candles, and there was a silver dish of
fruit in the center. The dinner was well-served by a trim maid.
Jean ate very little. Her father noticed her lack of appetite, "Why
don't you eat your dinner, dear?"
"I had chocolate at Emily's."
"I don't think she ought to go there so often," Miss Merritt complained.
"Why not?" Jean's voice was like the crack of a whip.
"It is so late when you get home. It isn't safe."
"I can always send the car for you, Jean," her father said. "I don't
care to have you out alone."
"Having the car isn't like walking. You know it isn't, Daddy, with the
rain against your cheeks and the wind--"
Dr. McKenzie's quick imagination was fired. His eyes were like Jean's,
lighted from within.
"I suppose it is all right if she comes straight up Connecticut Avenue,
Hilda?"
Miss Merritt had long white hands which lay rather limply on the table.
Her arms were bare. She was handsome in a red-cheeked, blond fashion.
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