"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. So she approached him with sandwiches. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. There was no answer. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. This was the reason he had raised his little independent Company of Light Infantry and joined the West Kent Militia. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor.
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