father. “It’s only if the neighbours opposite got talkin’ to them when they come back.”
“I can’t help it. They won’t mind. I can’t help it.”
John noticed her agitated repetition, the impatience with which she flung aside difficulties.
“Clara,—it ain’t anything about work, my dear?”
“No, father. I wouldn’t do anything without telling you; I’ve promised.”
“Then I don’t care; it’s all right.”
She had begun to speak immediately on his entering the room, and so it happened that he had not kissed her as he always did at homecoming. When she had sat down, he came with awkwardness and timidity and bent his face to hers.
“What a hot cheek it is to-night, my little girl!” he murmured. “I don’t like it; you’ve got a bit of fever hangin’ about you.”
She wished to be alone; the children must not come into the room until she had gone downstairs. When her father had left her, she seated herself before the looking-glass, abhorrent as it was to her to look thus in her own face, and began dressing her hair with
