“Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. And I guessed you would attack if I startled you. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. I’ll take over here. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She had but to choose. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. Your aunt liked the pheasant.
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