In the bedroom, she spoke about Mr. Pope. "He was dreadfully upset," she said. "His first thought was to come after you both with a pistol. If—if he hadn't married you——"
"But dear Mummy, of course we meant to marry! We married right away."
"Yes, dear, of course. But if he hadn't——"
She paused, and Marjorie, with a momentary flush of indignation in her cheeks, did not urge her to conclude her explanation.
"He's wounded," said Mrs. Pope. "Some day perhaps he'll come round—you were always his favourite daughter."
"I know," said Marjorie concisely, with a faint flavour of cynicism in her voice.
"I'm afraid dear, at present—he will do nothing for you."
"I don't think Rag would like him to," said Marjorie with an unreal serenity; "ever."
"For a time I'm afraid he'll refuse to see you. He just wants to forget——. Everything."
"Poor old Dad! I wish he wouldn't put himself out like this. Still, I won't bother him, Mummy, if you mean that."