The girl stood up. She took her father's hands. "Dear, dear Daddy," she said, "I am so sorry to be a bother. I am so sorry I went to that meeting.... You look tired out."
"We must talk—properly," said the bishop, patting one hand, then discovering from her wincing face that it was the sprained one. "Your poor wrist," he said.
"It's so hard to talk, but I want to talk to you, Daddy. It isn't that I have hidden things...."
She kissed him, and the bishop had the odd fancy that she kissed him as though she was sorry for him....
It occurred to him that really there could be no time like the present for discussing these "questionings" of hers, and then his fatigue and shyness had the better of him again.
§ 11
The papers got hold of Eleanor's share in the suffragette disturbance. The White Blackbird said things about her.
It did not attack her. It did worse. It admired her ... impudently.
It spoke of her once as "Norah," and once as "the Scrope Flapper."
Its headline proclaimed: "Plucky Flappers Hold Up L. G."
