“She’s a high and mighty young woman, I must say!” observed Mr. Wilkinson, a little hurt by her patronizing farewell.
His wife and daughter were not hurt. They said in the same breath:
“Poor Benedicta!”
“Why?” he wished to know.
They didn’t explain, but the thought both of them had was that it is a lamentable piece of folly to bite off one’s nose to spite one’s face, especially in the case of such a delightful nose and such a pretty face as Benedicta’s.
V
Once inside the Miller stronghold again, Benedicta went from bad to worse. Her father confirmed and strengthened all her theories. He was inordinately interested to hear that she had met young Dumall, and he remembered any number of new things about the two families.
When they sat down to their ill cooked, meager dinner, the fact that it hadn’t been paid for was amply compensated by eating it with old silver from old china. Mr. Miller, looking at his child, had not a single pang of regret that her youth and her loveliness were shut up in that dismal ruin. He felt, instead, a surge of pride and gratitude that she was a Miller.
Young Dumall came that very evening, bringing a book for Benedicta; but he did not show the least desire for a decorous conversation on family topics with her father.
In spite of his scholarly tastes and his shy, quiet air, he was a young fellow of enterprise and resolution. He suggested taking a walk, for the inadequate reason that the moon was up. So Mr. Miller was left alone—which, after all, was the fate he had chosen for himself.