h her
eyes sometimes showed when they rested upon him; then she glanced down
the hall toward Fanny's room, and, after another moment of hesitation,
came quickly in, and closed the door.

"Dear," she said, "I wish you'd tell me something: Why don't you like
Eugene?"

"Oh, I like him well enough," George returned, with a short laugh, as he
sat down and began to unlace his shoes. "I like him well enough--in his
place."

"No, dear," she said hurriedly. "I've had a feeling from the very
first that you didn't really like him--that you really never liked him.
Sometimes you've seemed to be friendly with him, and you'd laugh with
him over something in a jolly, companionable way, and I'd think I was
wrong, and that you really did like him, after all; but to-night I'm
sure my other feeling was the right one: you don't like him. I can't
understand it, dear; I don't see what can be the matter."

"Nothing's the matter."

This easy declaration naturally failed to carry great weight, and Isabel
went on, in her troubled voice, "It seems so queer, especially when you
feel as you do about his daughter."

At this, George stopped unlacing his shoes abruptly, and sat up. "How do
I feel about his daughter?" he demanded.

"Well, it's seemed--as if--as if--" Isabel began timidly. "It did
seem--At least, you haven't looked at any other girl, ever since they
came here and--and certainly you've seemed very much interested in her.
Certainly you've been very great friends?"

"Well, what of that?"

"It's only that I'm like your grandfather: I can't see how you could be
so much interested in a girl and--and not feel very pleasantly toward
her father."

"Well, I'll tell you something," George said slowly; and a frown of
concentration could be seen upon his brow, as from a profound effort at
self-examination. "I haven't ever thought much on that particular point,
but I admit there may be a little something in what you say. The truth
is, I don't believe I've ever thought of the two together, exactly--at
least, not until lately. I've always thought of Lucy just as Lucy,
and of Morgan just as Morgan. I've always thought of her as a
person herself, not as anybody's daughter. I don't see what's very
extraordinary about that. You've probably got plenty of friends, for
instance, that don't care much about your son--"

"No, indeed!" she protested quickly. "And if I knew anybody who felt
like that, I wouldn't--"

"Never mind," he interrupted. "I