Joyce got up. The accumulated weight of the habit of filial obedience was heavy, but her heart was in declared rebellion. Nor did she believe what had been told her.
"Will you tell me who this excellent authority is?" she asked.
"No: you must take its excellence on trust from me."
Joyce turned to him. She spoke quite respectfully, but quite firmly.
"Then I can't write that letter," she said. "I am very sorry, but it is quite impossible."
"And do you intend also to disobey me with regard to neither seeing nor communicating with Mr. Lathom again?"
Joyce hesitated.
"No, I intend to obey you," she said. "At least—at least I promise to tell you if I ever intend to do otherwise."
For the first time it struck him that he was dealing with a force greater than any that was at his command. Hitherto, Joyce had never put herself into open opposition to him, and he had had no experience of the power which her habitual serenity held within it.
"You are vastly obliging," he said. "I had no idea I had so obedient a daughter."