The only drawback was the disgusting frequency with which the words “Beryl and Terence Weaver” appeared; that did rather get on my nerves, and I did ask Edith once if Terence Weaver was the only man in New York.  In fact, I was at one time on the point of going to New York myself and taking it out of Mr. Terence Weaver.  I just ached to give him a run for his money.  But when I hinted it—­going to New York, I mean—­dad looked rather hurt.

“I had expected you’d stay at home until after the holidays, at least,” he remarked.  “I’m old-fashioned enough to feel that a family should be together Christmas week, if at no other time.  It doesn’t necessarily follow that because there are only two left—­” Dad dropped his glasses just then, and didn’t finish the sentence.  He didn’t need to.  I’d have stayed, then, no matter what string was pulling me to New York.  It’s so seldom, you see, that dad lowers his guard and lets you glimpse the real feeling there is in him.  I felt such a cur for even wanting to leave him, that I stayed in that evening instead of going down to the Olympic, where was to be a sort of impromptu boxing-match between a couple of our swiftest amateurs.

Talking to dad was virtuous, but unexciting.  I remember we discussed the profit, loss, and risk of cattle-raising in Montana, till bedtime came for dad.  Then I went up and roasted Rankin for looking so damned astonished at my wanting to go to bed at ten-thirty.  Rankin is unbearably righteous-looking, at times.  I used often to wish he’d do something wicked, just to take that moral look off him; but the pedestal of his solemn virtue was too high for mere human temptations.  So I had to content myself with shying a shoe his way and asking him what there was funny about me.

After dad got well enough to go back to watching his millions grow, and didn’t seem to need me to keep him cheered up, life in our house dropped back to its old level—­which means that I saw dad once a day, maybe.  He gave me back my allowance and took to paying my bills again, and I was free to get into the old pace—­which I will confess wasn’t slow.  The Montana incident seemed closed for good, and only Frosty’s letters and a rather persistent memory was left of it.

In a month I had to acknowledge two emotions I hadn’t counted on:  surprise and disgust.  I couldn’t hit the old pace.  Somehow, things were different—­or I was different.  At first I thought it was because Barney MacTague was away cruising around the Hawaii Islands, somewhere, with a party.

I came near having the Molly Stark put in commission and going after him; but dad wouldn’t hear of that, and told me I’d better keep on dry land during the stormy months.  So I gave in, for I hadn’t the heart to go dead against his wishes, as I used to do.  Besides, he’d have had to put up the coin, which he refused to do.