She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He classified her as he seated himself. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. He loves the Mendelians because he hates all the big names of the eighties and nineties.
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