She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. “Well, he’s really smart. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Whatever she does is minimized. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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