“Of course I haven’t been brought up to marry a poor man,” she said. “We would both be miserable, if it came to that. So it would be a mistake, wouldn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly,” responded Garwood, who, having carried his point much more easily than he expected, found a certain amusement in her mental processes, as one is entertained by the antics of a kitten.
“Then I suppose I shall have to give him up,” she continued, with another beautifully plaintive sigh. “He is to call to-night. Will you tell him? Or shall I write him a note?”
“No doubt you know the correct procedure,” said Garwood. “Write your note and give it to me. Make it firm and definite.”
She nodded agreement. “And now, papa, don’t you think I am a very dutiful, self-sacrificing daughter?”
Garwood reached for his check-book with a smile of grim comprehension. “How much does it cost me this time?” he asked.
When Joe called that evening he was shown into Hugh Garwood’s study. The railway man, seated at his desk, eyed him keenly. Kent found the scrutiny unfriendly, and stiffened.
“I called to see Miss Garwood,” said he. “My name is Kent.”
“Sit down, Mr. Kent,” said Garwood. “My daughter has given me this note for you. Will you please read it.”
Joe read. It was brief and to the point, and wound up with perfunctory regrets. There was no possibility of misunderstanding it. He folded the missive.