"Rudely?" I repeated. "How has he treated me, I should like to know?"
"If you really would like to know," returned Dad, in that nice, calming way he has which, even when you are ruffled up, makes you feel like a kitty-cat being stroked, "I don't see, girlie dear, that you have so very much to complain of. I've been having a chat with him, and if he tells the truth, he appears to have served you pretty well. But perhaps you will say he doesn't tell the truth as to that?"
"Oh, he served me well enough—too well." said I. "But let's not speak of him. I want to talk about you,"
"There's plenty of time for that," said Dad. "I've come to stay—for a while. Before we begin on me, let's thrash out this matter of Mr. Winston."
"It deserves to be thrashed," I remarked, trying to laugh. But I've heard things that sounded more like laughs than that. I hoped Dad didn't notice it was wobbly.
"He's told me the whole story," went on Dad, "so perhaps I'm in a position to judge better than you. Women are supposed to have no abstract sense of justice, but I thought my girl was different. You hear what Winston has got to say first, and then you can send him to the right-about if you please."
"I don't see anything abstract in that. It's purely personal," said I. "Mr. Winston can't expect me to hear him, or even to see him, again."
"He hopes, not expects, as a chap feels about going
