Daughters were in the air that day. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. He was wearing a new silk hat, with a slightly more generous brim than its predecessor, and it suited his type of face, robbed his dark eyes a little of their aggressiveness and gave him a solid and dignified and benevolent air. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. A creeping numbness invaded her. “Dear John,” she whispered. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I know how bad it feels. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure.
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