``The air's stuffy in here.''
He rose obediently. She led him to the veranda and seated him
comfortably, with a cushion in his back at the exact spot at
which it was most comfortable. She patted his shrunken cheeks,
stood off and looked at him.
``Where's your sense of humor?'' she cried. ``You used to be
able to laugh when things went against you. You're getting to be
as solemn and to take yourself as seriously as Davy Hull.''
The old man made a not unsuccessful attempt to smile. ``That
there Victor Dorn!'' said he. ``He'll be the death of me, yet.''
``What has he done now?'' said Jane, innocently.
Hastings rubbed his big bald forehead with his scrawny hand.
``He's tryin' to run this town--to run it to the devil,'' replied
he, by way of evasion.
``Something's got to be done about him--eh?'' observed she, in a
fine imitation of a business-like voice.
``Something WILL be done,'' retorted he.
Jane winced--hid her distress--returned to the course she had
mapped out for herself. ``I hope it won't be something stupid,''
said she. Then she seated herself and went on. ``Father--did
you ever stop to wonder whether it is Victor Dorn or the changed
times?''
The old man looked up abruptly and sharply--the expression of a
shrewd man when he catches a hint of a new idea that sounds as if
it might have something in it.
``You blame Victor Dorn,'' she went on to explain. ``But if
there were no Victor Dorn, wouldn't you be having just the same
trouble? Aren't men of affairs having them everywhere--in Europe
as well as on this side--nowadays?''
The old man rubbed his brow--his nose--his chin-- pulled at the
tufts of hair in his ears--fumbled with his cuffs.
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