“Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?”
“There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains me.”
“But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give up everything—almost” (correcting herself); “I would die rather than make you unhappy; that would be too wicked!”
She shuddered.
“Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It shall, for your sake, if you order it.”
“I order nothing.”
“Order something, papa; express your wish; only don’t hurt, don’t grieve Graham. I cannot, cannot bear that. I love you, papa; but I love Graham too—because—because—it is impossible to help it.”
“This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly—that is my present notion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do not love him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad’s eye I never quite fathomed—something his mother has not—a depth which warned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, I find myself taken over the crown of the head.”
“Papa, you don’t—you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a convent, and break Graham’s heart to-morrow, if you choose to be so cruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?”
“Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don’t like him, Polly, and I wonder that you should.”