“Certainly not,” said the rector, stiffly.
“Graham's changed, you know. He used to be a nice little kid. But he's—I don't know what it is. Spoiled, I suppose.”
“He'll steady down, Delight.”
She looked up at him with clear, slightly humorous eyes.
“Don't get any queer ideas about Graham Spencer and me, Daddy,” she said. “In the first place, I intend to choose my own husband. He's to look as much as possible like you, but a trifle less nose. And in the second place, after I've backed the car into a telegraph pole; and turned it over in a ditch, Graham Spencer is just naturally going to know I am no woman to tie to.”
She got up and smiled at him.
“Anyhow, I wouldn't trust him with the communion service,” she added, and walking out onto the floor, blew shrilly on her whistle. The rector watched her with growing indignation. These snap judgments of youth! The easy damning of the young! They left no room for argument. They condemned and walked away, leaving careful plans in ruin behind them.
And Delight, having gone so far, went further. She announced that evening at dinner that she would under no circumstances be instructed by Graham Spencer. Her mother ventured good-humored remonstrance.
“The way to learn to drive a car,” said Delight, “is to get into it and press a few things, and when it starts, keep on going. You've got to work it out for yourself.”
And when Clayton, calling up with his usual thoughtfulness that evening, offered Graham as instructor, she refused gratefully but firmly.