Grisel laughed. "Well, really, father!" she said.
"Oh, I know, I know. Of course, it is all my own fault," he was playing on his voice now, and it was very pleasant to hear, although she despised him for doing it. "But when you are my age, my child, you will know that habit is a great thing and that old ties are not easily broken."
"I know that already," she snapped, "I thought it was you who didn't."
After a pause, feeling that he was about to become lyrical, she cut him short by asking pleasantly:
"How are—the Crichells?"
There was a pause and then he nobly replied:
"Poor Crichell, for whom I am very sorry, is coming back to-day. He has been in Scotland and—er—Mrs. Crichell——"
"Oh, don't mind me, father, call her Clara," she interrupted, conscious of and quite horrified by her own bad taste, and yet somehow unable to keep back the words.
"Thank you, my dear. Clara is staying with some friends in Herefordshire."