"No doubt. Still, one has to be reasonable. As you admitted to me—one has to square one's self with the world. You don't know. With people of that sort all sorts of things may happen. We don't want things to happen."
Ann Veronica made no answer.
A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. "I may seem unduly—anxious. I can't forget about your sister. It's that has always made me—SHE, you know, was drawn into a set—didn't discriminate Private theatricals."
Ann Veronica remained anxious to hear more of her sister's story from her father's point of view, but he did not go on. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. She glanced at him. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. "We don't want things to happen!" Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his
