"You are undoubtedly an Irishman, Mr. Donovan. I am sorry we shan't have any more tennis."
"You have said so, Miss Holbrook, not I."
She laughed, and then glanced toward the brown figure of Sister Margaret, and was silent for a moment, while the old clock on the stair boomed out the half-hour and was answered cheerily by the pretty tinkle of the chapel chime. I counted four poppy-leaves that fluttered free from a bowl on the book-shelf above her head and lazily fell to the floor at her feet.
"I had hoped," she said, "that we were good friends, Mr. Donovan."
"I have believed that we were, Miss Holbrook."
"You must see that this situation must terminate, that we are now at a crisis. You can understand—I need not tell you—how fully my sympathies lie with my father; it could not be otherwise."
"That is only natural. I have nothing to say on that point."
"And you can understand, too, that it has not been easy for me to be dependent upon Aunt Pat. You don't know—I have no intention of talking against her—but you can't blame me for thinking her hard—a little hard on my father."
I nodded.
"I am sorry, very sorry, that you should have these troubles, Miss Holbrook."