"You have not swerved a line?"
"I am exactly the same," Catherine repeated, wishing her aunt were a little less sympathetic.
"Well, I am glad!" and Mrs. Penniman surveyed her cashmere in the glass. Then, "How is your father?" she asked in a moment, with her eyes on her niece. "Your letters were so meagre—I could never tell!"
"Father is very well."
"Ah, you know what I mean," said Mrs. Penniman, with a dignity to which the cashmere gave a richer effect. "Is he still implacable!"
"Oh, yes!"
"Quite unchanged?"
"He is, if possible, more firm."
Mrs. Penniman took off her great shawl, and slowly folded it up. "That is very bad. You had no success with your little project?"
"What little project?"
"Morris told me all about it. The idea of turning the tables on him, in Europe; of watching him, when he was agreeably impressed by some celebrated sight—he pretends to be so artistic, you know—and then just pleading with him and bringing him round."
