The offence itself seemed a pinprick beside the rankle
of the wound to her pride. This child had set up for herself, and was now
returned--without extenuation, without plea for mercy. Mrs. Percival was
one of those people who cannot be happy unless their right to rule be
unquestioned. Had the girl humbled herself to the dust, grovelled at her
feet, she would have taken her to her breast. But Sanchia stood upright,
and Mrs. Percival felt the frost gripe at her heart. It must be so.
Her father went with her to the door--his arm about her waist. "Come
soon," he pleaded, and when she promised, whispered in her ear--"Come to
The Poultry, if you'd rather: I'm always there--as you know. Come, and
we'll lunch together. You'll be like a nosegay in the dusty old place."
"Yes, yes, I shall come--often," she told him, and nestled to his side.
Then she put up her cheek for his kiss. "Good-night, Papa dear," He wept
over her, and let her go. Then he returned to his hearth and his wife. In
his now exalted mood he was really master of both, and Mrs. Percival knew
it. "You gave her the money, I suppose?" she said; and he, "Yes, my dear,
I gave her two hundred pounds." He had doubled the sum agreed, but Mrs.
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