Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. “Oh, damn!” he said. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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