“You, too?” he exclaimed bitterly. “The old chaps--but it's a shame for you to have waited up, dear.” “Tell me what has happened. It can't be that your father is ill--or in danger. You are angry, Frederic; so it can't be that. What is it?” He looked away sullenly. “Oh, it's really nothing, I suppose. Just an unexpected jolt, that's all. I was angry for a moment----” “You are still angry,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. She was a tall, slender girl. Her eyes were almost on a level with his own. “Don't you want to tell me, dear?” “He never gives me a thought,” he said, compressing his lips. “He thinks of no one but himself. God, what a father!” “Freddy, dear! You must not speak----” “Haven't I some claim on his consideration? Is it fair that I should be ignored in everything, in every way? I won't put up with it, Lydia! I'm not a child. I'm a man and I am his son. But I might as well be a dog in the street for all the thought he gives to me!” She put her finger to her lips, a scared look stealing into her dark eyes. Jones was conducting the two old men to their room on the floor below. A door closed softly. The voices died away. “He is a strange man,” she said. “He is a good man, Frederic.” “To everyone else, yes. But to me? Why, Lydia, I--I believe he hates me. You know what----” “Hush! A man does not hate his son. I've tried for years to drive that silly notion out of your mind. You----” “Oh, I know I'm a fool to speak of it, but I--I can't help feeling as I do. You've seen enough to know that I'm not to blame for it, either. And then--oh, what's the use whining about it? I've got to make the best of it, so I'll try to keep my mouth closed.” “Where is the message?” “I threw it into the fire.” “What!” “I was furious.” “Won't you tell me?” “What do you think he has done? Can you guess what he has done to all of us?” She did not answer. “Well, I'll tell you just what he said in that wireless. It was from the _Lusitania_, twelve hundred miles off Sandy Hook--relayed, I suppose, so that the whole world might know--sent at four this afternoon. I remember every word of the cursed thing, although I merely glanced at it. “'Send the car to meet Mrs Brood and me at the Cunard pier Thursday. Have Mrs Desmond put the house in order for its new mistress. By the way, you might inform her that I was married last Wednesday in Paris.' It was signed 'James Brood,' not even 'father.' What do you think of that for a thunderbolt?” “Married?” she gasped. “Your father married?”