"Oh, by the way, father," she said casually, or at least with a lightness of tone that was misleading, "there's one other matter. I've been thinking the situation out."
"Situation!" groped his Grace.
"That has been created." Sarah's tone was almost infantile—"by your insisting that Mrs. Sanderson should stay on."
"Well, what of it, what of it?"
"It simply makes the whole thing impossible." Sarah had achieved the voice of the dove. "So long as this woman remains in the house one feels that one cannot stay here."
"Why not?"
"Because"—Sarah fixed a deliberate eye on the face of her sire—"neither Aunt Charlotte nor I think that the present arrangement is quite seemly."
II
The attack had been neatly launched, and she saw by the look on her father's face that it had gone right home. She was a slow-witted, rather crass person, with a kind of heavy conceit of her own, but like all the other Dinneford ladies, at close quarters she was formidable. The button was off her foil. It was her intention to wound. And at the instant she struck, his Grace was unpleasantly aware of that fact.
"What d'ye mean?" It was his recoil from the stroke.
"I have talked over the matter with Aunt Charlotte. She agrees with me that the present arrangement is quite hopeless. And she thinks that as you are unwilling for
