She shuddered.

“Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It shall, for your sake, if you order it.”

“I order nothing.”

“Order something, papa; express your wish; only don’t hurt, don’t grieve Graham. I cannot, cannot bear that. I love you, papa; but I love Graham too⁠—because⁠—because⁠—it is impossible to help it.”

“This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly⁠—that is my present notion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do not love him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad’s eye I never quite fathomed⁠—something his mother has not⁠—a depth which warned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, I find myself taken over the crown of the head.”