Imogene winced, but "I should despise him if he were merely a society man," she said. "I have seen enough of them. I think it's better to be intellectual and good."
Mrs. Bowen made no reply, and the girl went on. "And as to his being older, I don't see what difference it makes. If people are in sympathy, then they are of the same age, no difference how much older than one the other is. I have always heard that." She urged this as if it were a question.
"Yes," said Mrs. Bowen.
"And how should his having been a newspaper editor be anything against him?"
Mrs. Bowen lifted her face and stared at the girl in astonishment. "Who said it was against him?"
"You hint as much. The whole letter is against him."
"Imogene!"
"Yes! Every word! You make him out perfectly detestable. I don't know why you should hate him, He's done everything he could to satisfy you."
Mrs. Bowen rose from her desk, putting her hand to her forehead, as if to soften a shock of headache that her change of posture had sent there. "I will leave the letter with you, and you can send it or not as you think best. It's merely a formality, my writing to your mother. Perhaps you'll see it differently in the morning. Effie!" she called to the child, who with her book shut upon her hand had been staring at them and listening intently. "It's time to go to bed now."
When Effie stood before the glass in her mother's room, and Mrs. Bowen was braiding her hair and tying it up for the night, she asked ruefully, "What's the matter with Imogene, mamma?"