Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Lucy did not suspect the date would be an issue, considering Cathy's rather liberal attitude towards dating in general. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends.
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