But he was not a father one could make much of. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood.
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