"You might leave that to Jaggers's lads," said the girl. "Surely we might keep this one hour in the week clean."
Mr. Haggard had once said that the girl was a Greek. He might have added—a Greek with an evangelical tendency. For this Sunday morning hour was no perfunctory exercise for her. It was a reality, looming always larger with the years, and on horseback, in the train, at stables, was perpetually recurring to the girl throughout the week.
In the struggle between her father and her mother in her blood, the mother was winning the ascendancy.
"I thought the rule was we might smoke if you was late, Miss," said Jerry, in the subdued voice he always adopted when speaking to his young mistress.
"It's not the rule, Jerry," the girl replied quietly, "as you're perfectly well aware. And even if it was the rule it would be bad manners. Alfred, give me those cards."
"What cards, Miss?"
"The cards you were playing with when I came in."
The cherub produced a dingy pack.
"They're only picture cards, Miss," he said.
The girl's gray eyes seemed to engulf the lad, friendly if a little stern.