"One would think so. But she is a girl whom nothing can injure. You can't imagine how good and how great she is;—great in her way, that is. She is as steady as a rock; and nobody who knows her will ever imagine her to be a party to her father's folly. She may pick and choose a husband any day she pleases. And the men about her won't mind this kind of thing as we should. No doubt all their friends joke him about it, but no one will think of blaming Polly."
"It can't do her any good," said Gregory.
"It cannot do her any harm. She has a strength of her own that even her father can't lessen."
"All the same, I wish there were an end of it."
"So do I, for my own sake," said Ralph. As he spoke he filled his glass, and passed the bottle, and then was silent for a few moments. "Neefit did help me," he continued, "and I don't want to speak against him; but he is the most pig-headed old fool that ever existed. Nothing will stop him but Polly's marriage, or mine."
"I suppose you will marry soon now. You ought to be married," said Gregory, in a melancholy tone, in which was told something of the disappointment of his own passion.
"Well;—yes. I believe I might as well tell you a little secret, Greg."
"I suppose I can guess it," said Gregory, with still a deeper sound of woe.
"I don't think you can. It is quite possible you may, however. You know Mary Bonner;—don't you?"
The cloud upon the parson's brow was at once lightened. "No," said he. "I have heard of her, of course."