“Do you remember this morning requesting Lord Yorkshire—Frank—not to smoke in the Room?” she asked.
“Yes, perfectly. And since I feel sure I know what you want to tell me, it did occur to me that you might, with a little courage, have asked him not to. You knew my feeling about it. But you have told me of your own accord, dear. So that is finished, quite finished.”
The temptation to say no more was extraordinarily strong, and to end this beautiful day quite happily with every one—Aunt Clara had kissed her twice, which she usually only did on Christmas morning—was the childish impulse dominant in her. To-morrow she would deal with other things, one perfect pearl of a day would be hers,—an imperishable treasure. But the necessity of honesty, consecrated, as it were, by what had passed between her and Frank on the subject, conquered. For the last year she had occasionally smoked, and had never in the least desired to tell her father that she did. Yet now, somehow, perhaps because it was connected with him, she must. So she spoke.
“No, it is not quite finished,” she said. “I had been smoking, too.”
For a moment he almost failed to grasp this simple statement, then a school-master voice rapped out a question.
“You smoke?” he asked.
“Not often; not much,” she said, with the old childish awe of him suddenly returning.
“And who—— Did Martin teach you?” he asked, with an ironic emphasis on “teach,” at that fine word being put to such base uses.
“No; I asked him for a cigarette,” she said.
“And he gave it you?”