Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. Leonardo would not have married her. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. 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.
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