"It seems to be the real thing with Hugh."
"Oh, I dare say it is. It was the real thing with Jack. I don't say"—her voice took on a tender tremolo—"I don't say that it wasn't the real thing with me. But that didn't make any difference to father. It was the real thing with Pauline Gray—when she was down there at Baltimore; but when father picked her out for Jack, because of her money and his relations with old Mr. Gray—"
I couldn't help half turning round, to cry out in tones of which I was unable to conceal the exasperation: "But I don't see how you can all let yourselves be hooked by the nose like that—not even by Mr. Brokenshire!"
Her fatalistic resignation gave me a sense of helplessness.
"Oh, well, you will before father has done with you—if Hugh goes on this way. Father's only playing with you so far."
"He can't touch me," I declared, indignantly.
"But he can touch Hugh. That's all he needs to know, as far as you're concerned." She asked, in another tone, "What are you answering now?"
I told her it was the invitation to Mrs. Allen's dance.
"Then tear it up and say I can't go. Say I've a previous engagement. I'd forgotten that they had that odious Mrs. Tracy Allen there."
I tore up the sheet slowly, throwing the fragments into the waste-paper basket.