“Papa, you don’t⁠—you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a convent, and break Graham’s heart tomorrow, if you choose to be so cruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?”

“Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don’t like him, Polly, and I wonder that you should.”

“Papa,” said she, “do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you look so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is an expression in your face which does not belong to you.”

“Off with him!” pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed and annoyed⁠—even a little bitter; “but, I suppose, if he went, Polly would pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won⁠—won, and weaned from her old father.”