“And you disgraced it today,” she said.

Her voice was a hiss now, low and venomous.

“The trustees of the university were in that audience.”

“I know,” I said. “Two of them already congratulated me.”

“They were being polite,” she said. “Inside, they were wondering why Arthur Mitchell’s daughter sounds like a resentful street activist.”

I looked at my father.

“Is that what you thought, Dad?”

He cleared his throat, his hand trembling slightly on his glass.

“You did seem… a bit harsh on the old guard, Sarah,” he said.

“The old guard is burning the planet, Dad.”

“Oh, spare us the stump speech,” Helen interrupted.

She walked over to the side table and picked up her leather handbag.

“You have created a very dangerous impression today.”

“A dangerous impression?” I repeated.

“People think there is a rift in this family,” she said.

“There is a rift,” I said. “There has been for ten years.”

“Not one that we allow the public to see,” she said.

She unzipped her bag, took out a small gold mirror, and checked her lipstick.

“We are a unit, Sarah.”