Von Essen raised his fist above her. “Don’t fool with me,” he said. “You know he wants to marry you.”
“The last time he mentioned it,” she said, with a quiet that should have warned him of some alarming change in her, “he wanted me—without marriage.”
Von Essen growled incoherently. “Marriage or no marriage, it’s nothing to me.... I’ve given you to him. I’m through with you. If he’ll marry you, so much the better for you.”
“This isn’t Belgium,” she said.
He twisted her about roughly so that she faced the stairs, then he pushed her forward. “Go down!” he said.
She walked with what dignity she could muster, very white, very quiet. She had no sense of being outraged; her father’s manner and conduct toward her did not matter. They did not exist. She walked slowly, head erect, and entered the library. Cantor stood expectant.
He bowed gravely. “Good afternoon,” he said, courteously.
“Here she is,” von Essen bellowed. “I’ve put an end to her tricks. It will be yes or no now—and it won’t be no.”
She looked at him curiously, then turned her eyes upon Cantor. “I understand you’ve changed your offer again,” she said, quietly. “You’re for marrying me once more.”
“I’m for having you however I can get you,” he said, with a smile. “One hesitates to speak of love with a third party present, even if the third party is the father....”