"And why not for Robin?" The girl's voice became sharply crisp and defiant. "Who is entitled to it more than he—a poor boy who struggled when no more than a child to earn bread for his invalid mother and little sister; who has never had a penny that he did not earn; who never would take one, but in spite of all has fought his way to recognition and respect and knowledge? Oh, you don't know how he has struggled—you who have had everything from birth—who have never known what it is not to gratify every wish, nor what it feels like to go hungry and cold that some one else might be warm and fed." Miss Deane's cheeks were aglow, and her eyes were filled with fire. "It is by such men as Robin Farnham," she went on, "that this country has been built, with all its splendid achievements and glorious institutions, and the possibilities for such fortunes as yours. Why should I not respect him, and honor him, and love him, if I want to?" she concluded, carried away by her enthusiasm.
Frank listened gravely to the end. Then he said, very gently:
"There is no reason why you should not honor and respect such a man, nor, perhaps, why you should not love him—if you want to. I am sure Robin Farnham is a very worthy fellow. But I suppose even you do not altogether realize the advantage of having been born poor——"
The girl was about to break in, but checked herself.
"Of having been born poor," he repeated, "and compelled to struggle from the beginning. It gets to be a habit, you see, a sort of groundwork for character. Perhaps—I do not say it, mind, I only say perhaps—if Robin Farnham had been born with my advantages and I with his, it might have made a difference, don't you think, in your very frank and just estimate of us to-day? I have often thought that it is a misfortune to have been born with money, but I suppose I didn't think of it soon enough, and it seems pretty late now to go back and start all over. Besides, I have no one in need to struggle for. My mother is comfortably off, and I have no little suffering sister——"
She checked him a gesture.
"Don't—oh, don't!" she pleaded. "Perhaps you are right about being poor, but that last seems mockery and sacrilege—I cannot bear it! You don't know what you are saying. You don't know, as I do, how he has gone out in the bitter cold to work, without his breakfast, because there was not enough for all, and how—because he had cooked the breakfast himself—he did not let them know. No, you do not realize—you could not!"
Mr. Weatherby regarded his companion rather wonderingly. There was something in her eyes which made them very bright. It seemed to him that her emotion was hardly justified.
"I suppose he has told you all about it," he said, rather coldly.
She turned upon him.