“I wonder you do not feel more for him. It must be horribly hard to know so much is against one. I’m not sure that I could stand it myself.”
“I don’t know that you could,” said Winifred, composedly.
“What makes you say so? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Winifred, just come from church, and going to teach those wretched little victims, with uncharitableness written on every hair of your head. Poor Marmaduke! Well, he gets on with your father better than I do.”
“I don’t know that, really. Only you and papa have each your own hobby-horses, and instead of trotting comfortably along, you must go full tilt at each other. I am sure he was very proud when he heard you had won the Chancellor’s medal. How nice it was of you, Anthony!”
“You could not have cared much about it.”
“Why not?” asked Winifred, who knew what was coming.
“You do not care for any poetry but the very best, you know.”
“That need not stand in the way,” said Winifred, smiling, and holding out her olive-branch magnanimously, “and besides—”
“Well?”
“I was rather cross that night, Anthony.”