“Dick is good company,” said Beatrice. “And it was his own fault. I asked him to go with us, when Dick and I left the cattle, and he wouldn't. Dick will tell you the same. And after that I did not see him until just before we—I came home, Really, mama, I can't have a leading-string on Sir Redmond. If he refuses to come with me, I can hardly insist.”
“Well, you must have done something. You said something, or did something, to make him very angry. He has not been himself all day. What did you say?”
“Dear me, mama, I am not responsible for all Sir Redmond's ill-humor.”
“I did not ask you that, Beatrice.”
Beatrice thumped her pillow again. “I don't remember anything very dreadful, mama. I—I think he has indigestion.”
“Be-atrice! I do wish you would try to conquer that habit of flippancy. It is not ladylike. And I warn you, Sir Redmond is not the man to dangle after you forever. He will lose patience, and go back to England without you—and serve you right! I am only talking for your own good, Beatrice. I am not at all sure that you want him to leave you alone.”
Beatrice was not at all sure, either. She lay still, and wished her mother would stop talking for her good. Talking for her good had meant, as far back as Beatrice could remember, saying disagreeable things in a disagreeable manner.
“And remember, Beatrice, I want this flirting stopped.”
“Flirting, mama?” To hear the girl, you would think she had never heard the word before.
“That's what I said, Beatrice. I shall speak to Richard in the morning about this fellow Cameron. He must put a stop to his being here two-thirds of the time. It is unendurable.”