“No,” said Noel, “it's the look in his eyes.”
“But why did he choose such a horrid, common girl? Isn't she fearfully alive, though? She looks as if she were saying: 'Cheerio!'.rdquo;
“She is; it's awfully pathetic, I think. Poor Daddy!”
“It's a libel,” said Gratian stubbornly.
“No. That's what hurts. He isn't quite—quite all there. Will he be coming in soon?”
Gratian took her arm, and pressed it hard. “Would you like me at dinner or not; I can easily be out?”
Noel shook her head. “It's no good to funk it. He wanted me, and now he's got me. Oh! why did he? It'll be awful for him.”
Gratian sighed. “I've tried my best, but he always said: 'I've thought so long about it all that I can't think any longer. I can only feel the braver course is the best. When things are bravely and humbly met, there will be charity and forgiveness.'.rdquo;
“There won't,” said Noel, “Daddy's a saint, and he doesn't see.”
“Yes, he is a saint. But one must think for oneself—one simply must. I can't believe as he does, any more; can you, Nollie?”