“I suppose it’s a natural process,” she went on, “but you ought to try, try seriously, I mean, to curb it where it affects the happiness of your daughters. You are too severe with Scott and Louie. All young men have foolish vanities—you had plenty.”
St. Peter sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and playing absently with the tassels of his bathrobe. “Why, Lillian, I have exercised the virtue of patience with those two young men more than with all the thousands of young ruffians who have gone through my classrooms. My forbearance is overstrained, it’s gone flat. That’s what’s the matter with me.”
“Oh, Godfrey, how can you be such a poor judge of your own behaviour? But we won’t argue about it now. You’ll put on your dinner coat? And do try to be sympathetic and agreeable tonight.”
Half an hour later Mr. and Mrs. Scott McGregor and Mr. and Mrs. Louie Marsellus arrived, and soon after them the English scholar, Sir Edgar Spilling, so anxious to do the usual thing in America that he wore a morning street suit. He was a gaunt, rugged, large-boned man of fifty, with long legs and arms, a pear-shaped face, and a drooping, prewar moustache. His specialty was Spanish history, and he had come all the way to Hamilton, from his cousin’s place in Saskatchewan, to enquire about some of Doctor St. Peter’s “sources.”
Introductions over, it was the Professor’s son-in-law, Louie Marsellus, who took Sir Edgar in hand. He remembered having met in China a Walter Spilling, who was, it turned out, a brother of Sir Edgar. Marsellus had also a brother there, engaged in the silk trade. They exchanged opinions on conditions in the Orient, while young McGregor put on his horn-rimmed spectacles and roamed restlessly up and down the library. The two daughters sat near their mother, listening to the talk about China.