"
The door of the ground floor room which served Dexter Allison as an
office was ajar when Barbara re-entered the house beyond the hedge.
There was a streak of light running out across the floor of the dim
hall from within, and the girl lingered on her hurried way to her own
room to bid her father good-night. But she found Wickersham alone when
she pushed wider the door. The light was behind him and she could not
see how distorted was his face, yet as she paused on the threshold and
a thin and pungent odor crinkled her nostrils, she sensed, somehow,
that he had not been long alone.
"Father gone to bed?" she called. "Well, that's wise. You'd better
come, too; it's time you were asleep."
She did not remember, just then, that other night when he had addressed
those same words to her. She only knew that his features became
suffused with purple even before she had finished. And then she
realized quickly that it was alcohol she smelled; knew, too, that it
was not Wickersham who had been drinking, even though Wickersham had
trouble with his tongue. And while she waited, puzzled and frowning,
the man gave up an attempt at his usual nicety of phrase and blurted
out all that which had been many days hidden behind his impassivity.
"We haven't yet set a certain date for our marriage, Barbara," his
voice was strained. "Don't you think it is high time we did?"
The girl colored.
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