"Does your father approve of what you have done?"
"Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?"
"Yes—if I can."
"Don't insist on my answering your last question."
The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room, left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which is founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age: what she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood her. He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a Knight, showed itself again. He put his hands in his pockets.
"You and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping opposite Iris.
"I don't deny it," she replied.
"Who is to blame?"
She smiled bitterly. "The woman is always to blame."
"Did your father tell you that?"