What the general was telling her, with the hearty kindliness fathers of other daughters use to daughters of other fathers--will use, indeed, commented the Bishop observing the incident from afar and allowing himself the solace of an instant's bitterness, to any created female thing if only she will oblige them by not being their own--was that he couldn't have her looking like this. "Oh, like what?" asked Ingeborg quickly, starting and flushing; for her week as an outcast had lowered her vitality to such an extent that she was morbidly afraid her face might somehow have become a sort of awful crystal in which everybody would be able to see the Rigi, and herself being proposed to on its top. "Shocking white about the gills," said the hearty man standing over her, cup in hand and see-sawing on his toes and heels because his boots creaked and it gave him a vague pleasure to make them go on doing it. "You must come round and have a good game of tennis with Dorothy some afternoon. You've been shut up working too hard at that letter-writing business, that's what you've been doing, young lady." "I wish I had--oh, I wish I had," said Ingeborg, pressing her hands together and looking up at this stray bit of kindliness with a quick gratefulness. "We always think of you as sitting there writing, writing," the hearty man went on, more intent on what he was saying than on what she was saying. "Father's right hand, mother's indispensable, you know. I tell Dorothy--" Ingeborg twisted on her chair. "Oh," she said, "don't tell Dorothy--don't tell her--" "Tell her what? You don't know what I was going to say." "Yes, I do--about that's how daughters ought to be--like _me_. And Dorothy's so good and dear, and wouldn't ever in this world have gone off to--" She stopped, but only just in time, and looked at him frightened. She had all but said it. The general, however, was staring at her with kindly incomprehension. Her head drooped a little, and she gazed vaguely at his toes as they rhythmically touched and were lifted up from the carpet. "Nobody knows what anybody else is really like inside," she finished forlornly. "You come up and have some tennis," he said, patting her on the shoulder. And later on to the Bishop he remarked, in his hearty desire to have everything trim and in its proper place, the young in the fresh air, older persons at desks in studies, white faces reserved for invalids, roses blooming in the cheeks of girls, that he mustn't overwork that little daughter of his. "Overwork!" exclaimed the Bishop, full of bitter memories of an empty week. "Turn her out into the sun, Bully, my boy," said the general whose fag the Bishop had been at Eton. "Into the sun!" exclaimed the Bishop, having for six mortal days observed her from windows horribly idling in it. "If you keep 'em shut up you can't expect girls any more than you can expect a decent bee to provide you with honey." "Honey!" exclaimed the Bishop.