“You don’t think”—she hesitated—“I mean—out of sheer spite against me—he might, well, try to make it awkward?”
Her father looked at her in some astonishment.
“Fight the case, you mean?”
He shook his head.
“Very unlikely. You see, he would have to have something to go upon.”
Mrs. Kettering did not answer. Van Aldin looked at her sharply.
“Come, Ruth, out with it. There’s something troubling you—what is it?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
But her voice was unconvincing.
“You are dreading the publicity, eh? Is that it? You leave it to me. I’ll put the whole thing through so smoothly that there will be no fuss at all.”
“Very well, Dad, if you really think it’s the best thing to be done.”
“Got a fancy for the fellow still, Ruth? Is that it?”
“No.”
The word came with no uncertain emphasis. Van Aldin seemed satisfied. He patted his daughter on the shoulder.
“It will be all right, little girl. Don’t you worry any. Now let’s forget about all this. I have brought you a present from Paris.”
“For me? Something very nice?”
“I hope you’ll think so,” said Van Aldin, smiling.