diate your dear old daddy—in the face, mind you, of his tender supplications. He can't be rough with you—it is n't in his nature; therefore you will have successfully chucked him because he was too generous to be as firm with you, poor man, as was, after all, his duty." This was what he communicated in a series of tremendous pats on the back; that portion of her person had never been so thumped since Moddle thumped her when she choked. After a moment he gave her the further impression of having become sure enough of her to be able very gracefully to say out: "You know your mother loathes you, loathes you simply. And I 've been thinking over your man—the fellow you told me about."
"Well," Maisie replied with competence, "I 'm sure of him."
Her father was vague an instant. "Do you mean sure of his liking you?"
"Oh no, of his liking her!"
Beale had a return of gaiety. "There's no accounting for tastes! It 's what they all say, you know."
"I don't care—I'm sure of him!" Maisie repeated.
"Sure, you mean, that she 'll bolt?"
