"Well, you can tell him so," said Mary.
Sir Richard frowned. His daughter's manners seemed to him at times abrupt.
"Why do you see so little now of Elizabeth Tranmore?" he asked her, with a sharp look. "You used to be always there. And I don't believe you even write to her much now."
"Does she see much of anybody?"
"Because, you mean, of Tranmore's condition? What good can she be to him now? He knows nobody."
"She doesn't seem to ask the question," said Mary, dryly.
A queer, soft look came over Sir Richard's old face.
"No, the women don't," he said, half to himself, and fell into a little reverie. He emerged from it with the remark—accompanied by a smile, a little sly but not unkind:
"I always used to hope, Polly, that you and Ashe would have made it up!"
"I'm sure I don't know why," said Mary, fastening up her envelopes. As she did so it crossed her father's mind that she was still very good-looking. Her dress of dark-blue cloth, the plain fashion of her brown hair, her oval face and well-marked features, her plump and pretty hands, were all pleasant to look upon. She had rather a hard way with her, though, at times. The servants were always giving warning. And, personally, he was much fonder of his younger daughter, whom Mary considered foolish and improvident. But he was well aware that Mary made his life easy.