“I think you are right, Claude,” she said, with a grave face.
“I am beginning to feel quite sure I am right. When she writes, does she never say anything about me?”
“Of course, she always—asks for you.”
“Is that all? Asking does not mean much.”
“What more could she say? Of course she knows that she has lost her place in your affection by her own rashness.”
“Not lost, Lady Markham. It is not so easy to do that.”
“It is true. Perhaps I should have said, fears that she has forfeited—your respect.”
“After all, she has done nothing wrong,” he said.
“Nothing wrong; but rash, headstrong, foolish. Oh yes, she has been all that. It is in the Waring blood!”
“I think you are a little hard upon her, Lady Markham. By the way, don’t you think yourself, that with two daughters to marry, and—and all that: it would be a good thing if Mr Waring—for you must have got over all your little tiffs long ago—don’t you think that it would be a good thing if he could be persuaded to—come back?”