The father was a madman. "Out of the twelve hundred subjects I've tucked up, I may safely place half to his account. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. .
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