Some one had begun to knock at the door, but he did not hear. Neither did Winifred. Each was absorbed in the other. Insensibly their tones in addressing each other were changed. Some other ingredient had mysteriously mingled with their rage; or, poured upon its stormy surface, had calmed the waves. They were enemies still, but the girl had found the man human; the man, because he was man, found himself yielding to her woman's domination.
Petro said God had made her a princess. She was only a shop girl, and the vain old man wanted her out of his way—intended to put her out of his way, by hook or by crook; but all the same in look and manner she was his ideal of a girl queen, and he could understand Petro being a fool over her.
"He never has asked you? But I thought––"
(Tap, tap, for the second and third time.)
"
I know what you thought. You wouldn't listen when I tried to explain."
(Tap, tap, tap! No answer. And so the door opened.)
"It isn't only that your son hasn't asked me to marry him, he hasn't even told me he cared."
"But he does both now," said Peter Rolls, Jr., on the threshold.
As he spoke he came into the room with a few long, quick steps that took him straight to Win, as if he wanted to protect her against his father if need be. And timidly, yet firmly, he was followed by Mrs. Rolls, wearing the new gray wrap.