"She must be warned. Yes, it is natural, but what is so dangerous as nature? She must be warned. Flowers—and perhaps kisses! I can't endure it, Nancy."
"My dear, you can't change humanity even in your daughters. I can't bear to hear you talk like that. It worries me."
"Street-corner meetings—secrecy—foolishness—it must be stopped."
"You'll make her think it's serious. She'll fancy she's in love! You must laugh at her. She is not fifteen."
"I think it's you who ought to speak to her."
"I can't, dear. My heart——"
"Oh, Nancy! Very well. I'll do this, too." He marched upstairs again, and she lay back in her chair, trying to still a thumping heart. He knew he had undertaken one of the hardest tasks in the world.
Nancy, complaining of fatigue and proudly reticent about her pain, retired to bed, and an uncomfortable trio sat round the supper-table. Edward Webb was jerkily conversational, Grace was sullen and aggrieved, Theresa had red eyes. She and Grace had quarrelled. She had been called "sneak," as might have been foreseen, and she had answered, in the street, with furious little hands and feet, until, despairing of finding satisfaction in these assaults, she had sunk to the kerbstone, uttering passionate, half-articulate sobs of rage. Grace had walked on loftily, not even interested in her tears. With no one but a stolid policeman—would that it had been Bill!—to look at her, it seemed a waste of time to sit there longer, so she, too, walked home, pitying herself and hating Grace; but it was her father on whom she turned her hatred when she met Grace crying on the stairs, contorting her still lovely face. It was terrible to see her in distress, and Theresa asked forgiveness with fleeting touches of her hands. "Tell me—oh, do tell me!" she whispered. "I'm sorry, Grace."
"He is trying to part us, but he cannot do it," she said, and leaned her head against the pillar of the banisters.
Theresa was impressed. "Do you really love him?" she asked.