She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. Jackson. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. He was an imaginative young man. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles.
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