"What is it, Constance?" he inquired when seated beside her.
She gave a mirthless little laugh. It didn't sound to Mr. Weatherby like Connie's.
"Oh, not much, Dad." she replied.
"But you're unhappy," he insisted, and laid his hand upon her knee. Caresses were rare between them. Her father's touch shot through her like a knife.
"Oh, Dad," she broke out, casting off all disguise at last. She was tired of disguise. "Oh, Dad, I sometimes wonder why I was ever born!
The moment she spoke she was sorry. Her father looked so shocked, so pained. She found herself in the position of trying to reassure and comfort him, instead of the other way round. It was the last straw! The one feature that had made life bearable at home had been that none of them, especially her father, guessed that she guessed what an utter no-account she was. Now she had smashed even that little illusion.
It was the same afternoon, seated in the reading-room of the public library, a retreat Constance had sought before when in the grip of self-dissatisfaction, that she ran across a sentence that caught her attention. It was the only thing that had caught her attention and held it, during the
