Her father was a man of energy, too. He had come from the north poor. Now he was moderately rich.
Winifred's father was always generous
His blood was strong even to coarseness. But that only made the home more vigorous, more robust and Christmassy.
He was a man of courage, not given to complaining, bearing his burdens by himself. No, he did not let the world intrude far into his home.
And they drew the sustenance for their fire of passion from him, from the old man. It was he who fed their flame. He triumphed secretly in the thought
a lovely little blonde daughter with a head of thistle-down.
Egbert didn't mind being patronized and paid for.
It never occurred to her to refer to Egbert, if she were in difficulty or doubt. No, in all the serious matters she depended on her father.
It was not that he was idle. He was always doing something, in his amateurish way. But he had no desire to give himself to the world, and still less had he any desire to fight his way in the world.
For Egbert had no intention of coming to grips with life. He had no ambition whatsoever.
