“Doesn’t she think it good enough for her?” cried little Lizzie Acton, who was always asking unpractical questions that required, in strictness, no answer, and to which indeed she expected no other answer than such as she herself invariably furnished in a small, innocently-satirical laugh.
“She certainly expressed a willingness to come,” said Mr. Wentworth.
“That was only politeness,” Gertrude rejoined.
“Yes, she is very polite—very polite,” said Mr. Wentworth.
“She is too polite,” his son declared, in a softly growling tone which was habitual to him, but which was an indication of nothing worse than a vaguely humorous intention. “It is very embarrassing.”
“That is more than can be said of you, sir,” said Lizzie Acton, with her little laugh.
“Well, I don’t mean to encourage her,” Clifford went on.
“I’m sure I don’t care if you do!” cried Lizzie.
“She will not think of you, Clifford,” said Gertrude, gravely.
“I hope not!” Clifford exclaimed.