"That is what you were going to say, isn't it?"
"Yes, I started to say that," she answered, "and then I thought better
of it."
She spoke calmly; but she was oddly disquieted by his fixed gaze, and
angry with herself for feeling it.
"I will tell you," said he, "how I happen to be acting in both
capacities."
The marks of his internal struggle broke through upon his face. For the
first time, it occurred to Sharlee, as she looked at the new markings
about his straight-cut mouth, that this old young man whom she had
commonly seen so matter-of-fact and self-contained, might be a person of
stronger emotions than her own. After all, what did she really know
about him?
As if to answer her, his controlled voice spoke.
"Mr. Surface is my father. I am his son."
She smothered a little cry. "_Your father_!"
"My name," he said, with a face of stone, "is Henry G. Surface, Jr."
"Your father!" she echoed lifelessly.
Shocked and stunned, she turned her head hurriedly away; her elbow
rested on the broad chair-arm, and her chin sank into her hand.
Surface's son looked at her.
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