Well, Miss Marmion----" "Oh, don't; _please_ don't!" she exclaimed, almost piteously, dropping into a big wicker armchair by the verandah and putting her hands over her eyes.
He had an awful fear that she was going to cry, and, as the Easterns say, he felt his heart turning to water within him.

But her highly trained intellect came to her aid.

She swallowed the sob, and looked up at him with clear, dry eyes.
"It isn't quite that, Mark," she continued.

"You know I wouldn't stand anything like that even from the dear old Dad.

Much as I love him, and even, as you know, in some senses almost worship him, it isn't that.
It's this theory of heredity of his--this scientific faith--bigotry, I call it, for it is just the same to him as Catholicism was to the Spaniards in the sixteenth century.