He tried to scowl, but it was a failure; and his voice was not in the least formidable as he said: “A pretty mess you got yourself into, miss, with your telephoning.”
“What telephoning?” she asked with a start.
“Tattling your engagement.”
“Oh!” She threw herself into a chair and laughed.
“Your father telephoned to Mr. Lawrence after he left us——” began her mother.
“What did you do that for, pa?” she interrupted. “He’ll think we haven’t any pride.”
“You ungrateful, thoughtless child! I did it for your sake.”
“What did Mr. Lawrence say?”
Her father hesitated and his face showed how he hated to inflict upon his daughter the pain he thought his words would cause. “He said it was useless to continue our discussion, as Lord Frothingham had definitely and finally decided not to renew his proposal.” The old man’s voice almost broke as he went on: “Jenny, here’s a note that came a few minutes ago—I think the address is in Frothingham’s handwriting.”
Neither he nor her mother dared to look at her as she was hearing these awful disclosures of the downfall of her hopes and the impending brutalities to her pride and vanity. She picked up the note, opened it slowly, read it—a few polite formal sentences, setting forth that he had “yielded to the insuperable obstacles interposed by your father.”