dulgence. Most decidedly, you should have spoken to me first."
Catherine hesitated a moment, and then—"It was because I was afraid you wouldn't like it!" she confessed.
"Ah, there it is! You had a bad conscience."
"No, I have not a bad conscience, father!" the girl cried out, with considerable energy. "Please don't accuse me of anything so dreadful." These words, in fact, represented to her imagination something very terrible indeed, something base and cruel, which she associated with malefactors and prisoners. "It was because I was afraid—afraid" she went on.
"If you were afraid, it was because you had been foolish!"
"I was afraid you didn't like Mr. Townsend."
"You were quite right. I don't like him."
"Dear father, you don't know him," said Catherine, in a voice so timidly argumentative that it might have touched him.
"Very true; I don't know him intimately. But I know him enough. I have my impression of him You don't know him either."
