“My dear father,” Maurice’s voice returned, and she wondered whether her father felt to the full its cutting quality, “we are all of us asses to one another, so that the one virtue we should strive for is tolerance. I hope that in the future you will exercise it towards my guests and in my house.”
“Oh, very well; by all means,” said Mr. Merrick, resentful, but hesitating to express his full resentment. “I will merely vacate your drawing-room on such occasions, since I am not apt at falsity.” The words were sunk in the large rustling of his newspaper.
“I should, if I were you, merely avoid taking a bludgeon to other people’s beliefs; it’s not a seemly thing—a bludgeon in a drawing-room.”
Maurice, when Felicia entered, was cheerfully pouring his coffee after the cheerful remark, though there was in his eyes as he looked up at her, and then at Mr. Merrick, flushed and silent behind his newspaper, a touch of anxiety.
“Did you hear, darling?” he asked her, when, after breakfast, they were alone.
“Yes. I am so sorry. You will be patient, Maurice. He has got the habit of bludgeoning—he thinks it right.”
“Patient, my sweetheart! Did I seem impatient? It was really for his sake I spoke. He gets himself so misjudged.”
“Yes, yes. It was right of you to speak.”
“Only I did not intend you to hear.”
“Why not? You must always intend me to hear anything you say.” She smiled at him, really happier in this more accurately seen situation than she had been for some time. It was easy to bear with slight discords if their own harmony were perfect.