"My dear."
"A ghoul. You should have seen her, with great chunks of bread and butter."
"Hilda has a healthy appetite."
"Of course you defend her."
"My dear child—"
"Oh you do, Daddy, always, against me—and I'm your daughter—"
She wept a tear or two into her muff, then raised her eyes to find him regarding her quizzically. "Are you going to spoil my ride?"
"You are spoiling mine."
"We won't quarrel about it. And we'll stop at Small's. Shall it be roses or violets, to-day, my dear?"
She chose violets, as more in accord with her pensive mood, lighting the bunch, however, with one red rose. The question of Hilda was not settled, but she yielded as many an older woman has yielded—to the sweetness of tribute—to man's impulse to make things right not by justice but by the bestowal of his bounty.