Hildegarde having read the note, had crushed it in her hand. So much for a dream! Shattered. She had thought last night there was full understanding between herself and her father.
And now he offered her—Bobby!
Bobby was a clown—Pierrot, Harlequin, almost fantastically funny. A man to play around with, but not to marry. Why, all the world knew Bobby's inconstancies. One did not want a husband like that, swearing love on his knees at one moment, and at the next swearing devotion at other slippered feet.
Last night she had felt so safe. She had thought she and her father stood shoulder to shoulder in their defiance of Winslow, their acceptance of the future. And now. . . ? Never with her mother had she had these devastating experiences with a weathercock mind. Her mother had faced things strongly. She would not have dreamed of Gresham as a husband for her daughter. She would not have been afraid of Neale. But her father was afraid. And he was weak. It was weakness which had kept him in Winslow's power; and which had made possible his dalliance with Ethel when he really didn't want her.
Or did he want her? Might he not even at this moment be changing his mind? There was nothing stable in him. He was blown by the wind. . . .
After Delia left her, she dressed slowly. She would go down and have a moment with her father before Winslow came. She didn't quite know what she would say to him. She only knew that she was going to tell him what she thought of him. He deserved it. After
