"He shouldn't have had the people."
"Well;—granted. But it does not signify much. Is your aunt Harriet there?"
"Yes."
"It can't be very bad, then."
"Mrs. Leslie is there, and Lady Eustace,—and two men I don't like."
"Is Everett here?"
"No;—he wouldn't have Everett."
"Oughtn't you to go to them?"
"Don't make me go. I should only cry. I have been crying all day, and the whole of yesterday." Then she buried her face upon his knees, and sobbed as though she would break her heart.
He couldn't at all understand it. Though he distrusted his son-in-law, and certainly did not love him, he had not as yet learned to hold him in aversion. When the connection was once made he had determined to make the best of it, and had declared to himself that as far as manners went the man was well enough. He had not as yet seen the inside of the man, as it had been the sad fate of the poor wife to see him. It had never occurred to him that his daughter's love had failed her, or that she could already be repenting what she had done. And now, when she was weeping at his feet and deploring the sin of the dinner-party,—which, after all, was a trifling sin,—he could not comprehend the feelings which were actuating her. "I suppose your aunt Harriet made up the party," he said.