“And I told papa; but he only frowned and made some observation about the degeneracy of the times, and the number of scamps thrown to the top by the modern methods of acquiring instantaneous fortunes.”
“Your papa is sometimes hard, is he not, Cicely?”
With a flush Miss Stuyvesant allowed her eye to rest for a moment on the crowd shifting before her. “He was dug from a quarry of granite, Paula. He is both hard and substantial; capable of being hewn but not of being moulded. Of such stuff are formed monuments of enduring beauty and solidity. You must do papa justice.”
“I do, but I sometimes have a feeling as if the granite column would fall and crush me, Cicely.”
“You, Paula?”
Before she could again reply, Mr. Sylvester returned. His face was still pale, but it had acquired an expression of rigidity even more alarming to Paula than its previous aspect of forced merriment. Lifting her by the hand, he drew her apart.
“I shall have to leave you somewhat abruptly,” said he. “An important matter demands my instant attention. Bertram is somewhere here, and will see that you and Ona arrive home in safety. You won’t allow your enjoyment to be clouded by my hasty departure, will you?”
“Not if it will make you anxious. But I would rather go home with you now. I am sure Cousin Ona would be willing.”
“But I am not going home at present,” said he; and she ventured upon no further remonstrance.
But her enjoyment was clouded; the sight of suffering or anxiety on that face was more than she could bear; and ere long she said good night