Dr. Merrick twirled his thumbs, and in a colorless voice enquired,
without relaxing a muscle of his set face,
"What sort of lady, please? A lady of the ballet?"
"Oh, no!" Alan cried, giving a little start of horror. "Quite
different from that. A real lady."
"They always ARE real ladies,--for the most part brought down by
untoward circumstances," his father responded coldly. "As a rule,
indeed, I observe, they're clergyman's daughters."
"This one is," Alan answered, growing hot. "In point of fact, to
prevent your saying anything you might afterwards regret, I think
I'd better mention the lady's name. It's Miss Herminia Barton, the
Dean of Dunwich's daughter."
His father drew a long breath. The corners of the clear-cut mouth
dropped down for a second, and the straight, thin eyebrows were
momentarily elevated. But he gave no other overt sign of dismay or
astonishment.
"That makes a great difference, of course," he answered, after a
long pause. "She IS a lady, I admit. And she's been to Girton."
"She has," the son replied, scarcely knowing how to continue.
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