“I thought he had forgotten Florence Williams years ago, or that, if he remembered her at all, it was with indifference or dislike. She jilted him meanly. But I was always glad of it.”
“Madeline,” said Mr. Dainty, speaking in a decided way, “we cannot change the present condition of things: that each of us may see at a glance. And the question for us to ponder is, can we afford to let our feelings rule, and so break with Uncle John? There is no use in beating around the bush. No use in fretting ourselves. The horns of our dilemma are visible as the sun at noonday, and we must make our election. Uncle John has made his: that is certain.”
“And do you really think he will give us and our children up for that girl?” said Mrs. Dainty.
“I am sure of it. Did you not see how he was moved when he said that he loved her as if she were his own child? I marked it well. I have seen him disturbed a hundred times in my life, but never as he was this evening.”
Mrs. Dainty sighed deeply.
“We shall have to humor him,” said Mr. Dainty.
“And let that upstart triumph over me!” Mrs. Dainty burst into tears. Pride could not endure the thought.
“Are you not prejudiced against her, Madeline? She has never seemed to me presuming.”
Before Mrs. Dainty could reply, the library-door was pushed open, and Madeline came gliding in. From her manner it was plain that she had come to make a request, and also plain that she was in doubt as to its reception.
“Mother,” she said, as she paused a few steps from Mrs. Dainty.