But, somehow, the expression of that face did not convey the idea of any great satisfaction. Quite the contrary. Odalite looked ready to cry.
“I do believe girls, with their lovers, are like dogs in the manger; they can’t marry them all, and yet they are not willing that any other girl should have any of the rejected ones! Sweet angel!—the girl of the nineteenth century!”
“I do not think,” murmured Odalite, breaking in upon her father’s silent criticism—“I do not think, judging from Le’s letters, that he has ever changed toward me. No, papa, I do not wish to justify myself by accusing Le.”
“Le’s letters, my dear! Why, they afford the strongest proofs to my mind that he is not, and never has been, the least bit in love with you.”
Odalite looked up in surprise.
“My dear, you have no experience, or you would never mistake Le’s practical epistles for love letters. Why, you let all the family read them! You could not if they were love letters.”
“Why, papa?”
“Because, my dear, if they were, they would be much too silly to be shown. You would not think so; but you would have sense enough left to know that other people would; and so you would hide them. But Le’s letters are laudably practical and fit to be shown to a deacon, as, for instance, this:
“‘Tell Beever he can stay on as overseer as long as you please; so he must look out and please you. Tell him I don’t know anything about the relative merits of Durham or Alderney breeds of cattle, or Southdown sheep, or anything of that sort. I took my degree at a naval academy, not at an agricultural college. So you just buy what stock you like best, and if you don’t know any better than I do, ask your father. He does.’
“That’s the sort of love letters Le writes to you, my dear! A letter that he might have written to his attorney or to his overseer!”