Marlowe nodded slowly.
It was a great responsibility bringing up a daughter.
Somehow he had never realized it until several months ago, when he had come into the parlor and found Rina there.
She was wearing a dark-blue dress that somehow made her seem older than her years.
Her white-blond hair shone in the semidimness.
"Hello, Father."
"Rina!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing home?"
"I got to thinking how awful it must be for you to come into this great big empty house and find yourself all alone," she said, "so I thought I'd take a few days off from school."
"But- but what about your studies?" he asked.
"I can make them up easily enough."
"But- "
"Aren't you glad to see me, Father?" she asked, interrupting.
"Of course I am," he said quickly.
"Then why don't you kiss me?" She turned her cheek toward him.
He kissed her cheek. As he straightened up, she held him with her arm.
"Now I'll kiss you."
She kissed him on the mouth and her lips were warm. Then she laughed suddenly.
"Your mustache tickles!"
He smiled down at her. "You always said that," he said fondly. "Ever since you were a little girl."
"But I'm not a little girl any longer, am I, Father?"
He looked at her, beautiful, almost a woman in her dark-blue dress.
"I guess not," he said.
She turned to the sideboard.
"I thought you might like a drink before dinner."
The bottles of liquor were all ready for him. He walked over to the sideboard. She even had cracked ice in the bucket.
"What's for dinner?" he asked.
"I had Molly make your favorite. Roast chicken, rissole potatoes."
"Good," he said, reaching for a bottle of whisky. Her voice stopped his hand.
"Wouldn't you like a Martini?
You haven't had one for a long time."
He hesitated a moment, then reached for the bottle of gin.
It wasn't until he turned around that he realized there were two cocktails in his hand.
Habit was a strange commander.
He turned to put one of them back on the sideboard.
"May I, Father?
I'm past sixteen.
There are many girls at school whose parents allow them a cocktail at dinner."
He stared at her, then poured half of one drink back into the shaker. He gave her the half-filled glass. He raised his glass in a toast.
She smiled, sipping delicately at her glass. "This is delicious," she said, in exactly the same words and tone of voice he had so often heard his wife use.
He felt the hot, uncontrollable tears leap into his eyes and turned away swiftly so that she would not see. Her hand caught at his sleeve and he turned back to her. Her eyes were deep with sympathy.
He let her draw him down slowly to the couch beside her.
And then, for a moment, he wasn't her father.
He was just a lonely man weeping against the breast of his mother, his wife, his daughter.
He felt her young, strong arms around his shoulders, her fingers lightly brushing his hair. He heard the rumble of her whispered voice within her chest.
"Poor Daddy, poor Daddy."
As suddenly as it had come, the moment was gone and he was aware only of the firm, taut breasts against his cheek.
Self-consciously he raised his head.
"I guess I made a fool of myself," he said awkwardly.
"No, Father," she said quietly. "For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a child any more. I felt grown up and needed."
He forced a tired smile to his lips.