“Your mother wants to make a trip down to Cincinnati soon and Charlotte, of course, would be glad to go with her.” A trace of embarrassment suddenly appeared in his manner and, as if to conceal or to distract himself from some disconcerting thought, he began looking over and sorting the letters and papers on his desk. “I’ll have this done while she’s gone,” he added abruptly. Rhoda rose, feeling dismissal in the sudden change in her father’s manner and went slowly toward the door. She felt what was in his mind. It had brought discomfort into her own thought, and more than once she had wondered if she might not speak to him about it. But unwillingness even to seem to question his attitude in a matter so peculiarly intimate between him and her mother had held her back. Now she knew that it was in his mind as well as in hers and she felt that it would grow and become an embarrassment between them. For herself it was already a stumbling block whose importance seemed graver with every episode of her work in the Underground. Why not meet it at once and get the question settled? She stopped with her hand on the door knob and looked back. To her surprise his eyes were following her, those calm, clear, cool eyes that in her mind were a sort of embodiment of her father. They seemed to sum up and express his whole character and temperament. She could never think of him without seeing his gray eyes looking at her, kind, but dispassionate and judicial. “What is it, Rhoda?” he asked. She came slowly back, looking down, and conscious that there must be something almost like shamefacedness in her manner. “I was wondering, father--is it necessary--do you think--must we keep it from mother always? Charlotte--it’s just as well--and that’s no matter--but mother--” She stopped, confused, and fingered the chair-back beside which she stood. Her eyes were upon it or she might have seen a slight flush color his usually pale skin. There was a moment’s silence before he spoke. “Don’t misunderstand me about that, daughter,” he said gently. He did not often address her except by her name and when he did sometimes call her “daughter” or “child” it stirred in her a shy warmth toward him and awoke a half-realized impulse to cling to his hand or stroke his hair. The impulse always died away in self-consciousness, but the warmth remained in her heart and made her glad.