"I thought we were agreed about that. How can any one who cares for the girl want it known? It's so"—he hesitated for a word, and then fell back upon the useful old one—"so childish," he repeated.
"I will go down, then," said Margaret.
"The sooner the better. I hope that you will be able to bring her to reason."
"But if you didn't—"
"I didn't because I lost my temper a little. It seemed to me that the time had come to speak to her plainly."
"Plainly generally means severely. I think severity will never have much effect upon Garda; if you are severe, you will only lose your influence."
"My influence!—I don't know that I have any. What is your idea of Edgarda Thorne?" he said, suddenly. "I don't know that I have ever asked you. Very likely you won't tell."
"I will tell exactly, so far as I know it myself—my idea," replied Margaret. "One cannot have a very definite idea of a girl of sixteen."
"I beg your pardon; to me she seems a remarkably definite person."
"She is, in one way. I think she is very warm-hearted. I think she is above petty things; I have never seen any girl who went so little into details. Mentally, I think her very clever, though she is also indolent. Her frankness would be the most remarkable thing about her were it not for her beauty, which is more remarkable still; it is her beauty, I think, that makes her, young as she is, so 'definite,' as you call it."