And, just as
when Mr. Ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in
his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little
froth came forth.
His daughter had approached again. She stood quite close, in white
satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair
frizzed--yes! frizzed--the holy woman! With all his might he tried to
say: 'So you bully me, do you--you bully me to-night!' but only the word
"so" and a sort of whispering came forth. He heard her speaking. "It's
no good your getting angry, Father. After champagne--it's wicked!" Then
her form receded in a sort of rustling white mist; she was gone; and he
heard the sputtering and growling of her taxi, bearing her to the ball.
So! She tyrannised and bullied, even before she had him at her mercy,
did she? She should see! Anger had brightened his eyes; the room came
clear again. And slowly raising himself he sounded the bell twice, for
the girl, not for that fellow Meller, who was in the plot. As soon as
her pretty black and white-aproned figure stood before him, he said:
"Help me up."
Twice her soft pulling was not enough, and he sank back. The third time
he struggled to his feet.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224