“Oh, papa, do not say that! She is very anxious to know how you are, and to ask you—oh, with all her heart, papa—to forgive her.”
Mr. Tredgold did not raise his head or show any interest. He only repeated with the same calm that phrase again.
“You have surely something else to say at the mention of her name than that. Oh, papa, she has done very, very wrong, but she is so sorry—she would like to fling herself at your feet.”
“She had better not do that; I should kick her away like a football,” he said.
“You could never be cruel to Stella—your little Stella! You always loved her the best of us two. I never came near her in one way nor another.”
“That is true enough,” said the old man.
Katherine did not expect any better, but this calm daunted her. Even Stella’s absence did not advance her in any way; she still occupied the same place, whatever happened. It was with difficulty that she resumed her questions.
“And you will miss her dreadfully, papa. Only think, those long nights that are coming—how you will miss her with her songs and her chatter and her brightness! I am only a dull companion,” said Katherine, perhaps a little, though not very reasonably, hoping to be contradicted.
“You are that,” said her father calmly.
What was she to say? She felt crushed down by this disapproval, the calm recognition that she was nobody, and that all her efforts to be agreeable could never meet with any response. She did make many efforts, far more than ever Stella had done. Stella had never taken any trouble; her father’s comfort had in reality been of very little importance to her. She had pleased him because she was Stella, just as Katherine, because she was Katherine, did not please him. And what was there more to be said? It is hard upon the unpleasing one, the one who never gives satisfaction, but the fact remains.