Perhaps if he had acted in some sort of way as would have represented this parental regret, Beatrix might have succumbed to it, as she had always done in the past. But he had shown her so plainly that his love was there ready for her, and that he wanted hers in return, and she had held aloof from him. He was hard with her, and she was hard in return, with a hardness he had never suspected in her. His displeasure seemed not to disturb her at all; she rejected its grounds, and expressed her displeasure with him in return, not with any lack of filial respect, but still as if they were two people on equal terms who had fallen out and could not come together again unless one or the other of them gave way. That he was her father did not appear to her to be reason why she should be the one to give way. She was very sorry, but she couldn't see that she had done anything wrong. She had not, as a matter of fact, said anything to Lady Mansergh, who had heard what had happened from outside. She had been very kind about it, and so had other people who knew. Mollie Walter was her chief friend, and she had told her everything; she didn't see how she could be blamed for that. If she had only told her one side, it was because she couldn't see that there was more than one side. She had never said a word about it to the Pembertons, nor they to her. But they had been more than usually kind to her since, and she supposed it was because they sympathised with her. She didn't see how she could be blamed for that either. "Well, darling," said Grafton, "perhaps I did you an injustice in thinking that you had talked about it all too much. If so, I'm sorry. But look here, B, we can't go on like this, you know. It's spoiling our family life, and our happiness together. You've had nearly three weeks now to get over it in. When are you going to begin to be what you've always been again?" "How can you expect me to be the same?" she asked. "I was very happy, and now I'm very unhappy." "But you're not going to be unhappy all your life, you know. You were as happy here a month ago as all the rest of us. If you can't take so much pleasure in it all just at present you might at least stop spoiling it for us." "How am I spoiling it for you?" "Well, I think you know that. We've always been together, and since we've lived here we've all been together in almost everything we've done. Now we're not. You put yourself out of it. It affects us all, and, of course, it affects me more than anybody, because I can't take pleasure in anything that one of my children holds herself apart from, as you're doing. It's more than that. You're almost at enmity with me." "No, I'm not. But how can I forget what you've done? You've spoilt my life for me. If you hadn't sent him away, I'd have loved you more than ever. Of course I do love you; but I can't help its making a difference."