his moods govern the course of the conversation at dinner.
He wasn't a ruthless despot. His daughters were glorious, beautifully kept girls—well developed, small-hipped creatures with fine, pink skin, powdered to a velvety texture; nails professionally manicured; hair always perfectly coiffed and waved—that is, all but Ada's, and she, of course, was still a youngster. Marcus realized that it wasn't their fault that they were girls, possessed of feminine tastes, and governed by feminine instincts. As far as he was able, it was his intention that their perfectly natural desire for raiment and decoration should be gratified.
He was not an unaffectionate parent, either. He liked to find his daughters all gathered in the living-room, waiting for him when he blew in from his brisk walk from the elevated, after a busy day down-town; basking by the strong drop-lights he provided for them; their noses buried in the pages of the several evening papers taken for their benefit; sleek and smooth as a batch of freshly combed Pomeranians.
It was at this hour that he tweaked the pink lobes of their little ears, rubbed his rough chin against one of their velvety cheeks, bantered about their various lovers, tickled a silk-stockinged ankle, abruptly snatched off a satin slipper and hung
