“Heaven forbid!” Major Winchester ejaculated; “Heaven forbid that I should say such a thing of anybody!”
“Well, well, you know what I mean,” Imogen went on; “you don’t think there’s much, anyway. Now she was really very kind to me when we arrived, much kinder than anybody; except you, of course,” she added naïvely.
Rex’s tone softened.
“I am far from saying there is no good in Trixie,” he repeated. “If we could get her away from other influences, if she could really be made to feel, if—if— But it’s no use discussing her. And, excuse me, my dear child,”—he was scarcely aware that he used the expression—“but can you judge in so very short a time as to whether we are hard on her or not?”
“N-no,” said Imogen, consideringly. “Only sometimes one seems to see thing’s at first better than afterwards.”
“Or one fancies so,” he remarked. “But don’t begin thinking Trixie a martyr. She is nothing of the kind, I assure you. I am glad—if she has been really kind to you, I should be glad. Still, I cannot help hoping that you will make more of a friend of Florence.”
Imogen made a little moue.
“I will if I can,” she said, adding: “It’s Miss Forsyth you think the bad influence, I can see. I’m afraid you don’t think there’s much good in her.”
“No,” said Major Winchester, gravely; “I’m afraid I do not.”
“I don’t like her,” continued the girl, “but mamma does. Miss Forsyth’s so nice to her. You’d better warn mamma. Major Winchester,” she added, rather flippantly.