“But, daddy—wha-a-t?”
“Are those scoundrels going to be here again to-day?” said Fox.
“Oh, daddy, what scoundrels?...Honestly!” She twisted in her chair, gasped a little, tried to laugh, picked up her spoon, started to go on eating, then put her spoon down again.
“Those scoundrels,” said the Fox, “that—you women“—he inclined his head with scornful emphasis—“have brought in to destroy my home.”
“But who are you talking about?” she protested, looking round like a hunted animal for a means of escape. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“I mean,” said Fox, “those interior decorating fellows“—here his voice was filled with the dismissal of an unutterable contempt—“that you and your mother have imported to wreck the house.”
“But I had nothing to do with it!” the girl protested. “Oh, daddy, you’re so-----” she broke off, squirmed, and turned away with a little laugh.
“So—_what?_” said Fox, low, hoarse, and scornful.
“Oh, I don’t know—so—so stra-a-nge! You say such funny thi-i-ngs!”
“Have you women,” Fox went on, “decided when you’re going to let me have a little peace in my own house?”
“Let you have a little pe-a-ce?...What have I done? If you don’t want the decorators, why don’t you speak to mo-o-ther?”
“Because“—Fox inclined his head with a slow, ironic emphasis upon the word—”because—I--don’t—count! I’m only the—Old—Grey—Mule—among six women—and, of course, anything is good enough for me!”
“But what have we done? We haven’t done anything to you! Why do you act so p-e-e-r-secuted?...Oh, daddy, honestly!” She squirmed desperately, tried to laugh, turned away, and ducked her head down towards her plate again.
Sitting back in his chair, one hand clasped upon the arm, his whole being withdrawn, remote, in an attitude eloquent of deep, unhoping patience, Fox continued to regard the child gravely for a moment. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled his watch out and looked at it, glanced at the child again, and shook his head in a movement packed with stern reproach and silent accusation.
She looked up, quick and startled, laid her spoon down, and gasped:
“Now what? What are you shaking your he-a-ad for? What is it now?”
“Is your mother up?”
“But naturally, I don’t kno-o-w!”
“Are your sisters up?”
“But, da-a-dy, how can I tell?”
“Did you get to bed early?”
“Ye-e-e-s,” in a drawl of protest.
“What time did your sisters get to bed?”
“But, of course, I have no way of kno-o-wing! Why don’t you ask the-e-m?”
Fox looked at the watch again, then at the child, and shook his head once more.
“Women!” he said quietly, and put the watch back into his pocket.
The child by now has finished with her oatmeal—all she wants of it. Now she slides out of her chair and, with face averted, tries to glide past Fox, out of the room. Fox gets up quickly, puts his arms round her, says in a low, quick, worried tone:
“Oh, darling, where are you going?”
“But to sch-o-o-ol, of course!”
“Darling, stay and eat your breakfast!”
“But I’ve e-e-a-ten!”
“Oh, you haven’t!” whispers Fox impatiently.
“But I’ve eaten all I wa-a-a-nt!”
“You haven’t eaten anything!” he whispers scornfully.
“But I don’t want any more,” she protests, looks desperately about, and struggles to free herself. “Oh, let me go-o-o, daddy! I’ll be late!”
“Then be late!” whispers the great watch-watcher and head-shaker scornfully. “Stay and eat your breakfast!“—punctuating these decisive words with slow nods of emphasis.
“But I ca-a-n’t! I’ve got to read a pa-a-per.”
“A—what?”
“A t-e-e-r-m paper—for Miss Allen’s class—it comes at nine o’clock.”
“Oh,” says Fox slowly, “I see.” In a low, almost inaudible tone, “On—_Whitman?_”
“Ye-e-e-s.”
“Oh…Did you read the book I gave you—the one with his war diary and notes?”
“Ye-e-e-s.”
“Astonishing!” whispers Fox. “Isn’t it astonishing? You can see just how he did it, can’t you? He—he got right up on everything,” Fox whispers, “just as if he were the thing itself—as if it were happening to him!”
“Ye-e-e-s.” She looks desperately around, then with averted eyes blurts out: “You were right about the other thing, too.”
“What other thing?”
“About night—how there’s so much night and darkness in himhis—his feeling for night.”
“Oh,” Fox whispers slowly, his sea-pale eyes misted with reflection. “Did you tell about that, too?”
“Ye-e-s. It’s tr-u-e. After you told me, I read him again, and it’s tr-u-e.”
Shy, desperate, timid, stricken as she is, she nevertheless knows it’s true when it’s true.