urpose of seeing V.V. and having things out with her fully and
completely because, in spite of all that had happened, she made such an
endless series of delays in coming to America.

Old Grammont as he appeared upon the pillow of his bed by the light of a
rose-shaded bedside lamp, was a small-headed, grey-haired gentleman with
a wrinkled face and sunken brown eyes. Years of business experience,
mitigated only by such exercise as the game of poker affords, had
intensified an instinctive inexpressiveness. Under the most solitary
circumstances old Grammont was still inexpressive, and the face that
stared at the ceiling of his cabin and the problem of his daughter
might have been the face of a pickled head in a museum, for any
indication it betrayed of the flow of thought within. He lay on his back
and his bent knees lifted the bed-clothes into a sharp mountain. He was
not even trying to sleep.

Why, he meditated, had V.V. stayed on in Europe so much longer than she
need have done? And why had Gunter Lake suddenly got into a state of
mind about her? Why didn't the girl confide in her father at least
about these things? What was afoot? She had thrown over Lake once and
it seemed she was going to turn him down again. Well, if she was an
ordinary female person that was a silly sort of thing to do. With her
fortune and his--you could buy the world. But suppose she was not all
ordinary female person.... Her mother hadn't been ordinary anyhow,
whatever else you called her, and no one could call Grammont blood all
ordinary fluid. ... Old Grammont had never had any delusions about Lake.
If Lake's father hadn't been a big man Lake would never have counted for
anything at all. Suppose she did turn him down. In itself that wasn't a
thing to break her father's heart.

What did matter was not whether she threw Lake over but what she threw
him over for. If it was because he wasn't man enough, well and good. But
if it was for some other lover, some good-looking, worthless impostor,
some European title or suchlike folly--!

At the thought of a lover for V.V. a sudden flood of anger poured across
the old man's mind, behind the still mask of his face. It infuriated
him even to think of V.V., his little V.V., his own girl, entertaining
a lover, being possibly--most shameful thought--IN LOVE! Like some
ordinary silly female, sinking to kisses, to the deeds one could buy
and pay for. His V.V.! The idea infuriated and disgusted him. He fought