"My poor child," he said sadly, placing one hand on her bowed head. "My poor child, you are too much in need of forgiveness from others for me to withhold mine. It is yours freely; but promise me that you'll show your appreciation of it by coming to me in all your troubles."
She seized his other hand in both of hers, and kissing it, burst into tears.
"And now," he said sternly, "I will seek out that miserable girl."
But Miss Fitzgerald, dreading the tempest, had sought the haven of her own room.
She was not a picture of contrite repentance as she stood by the open window, looking out into the night.
"Fools all!" she mused. "So I am to blame—it is all my fault!"
An amused sneer played about her lips.
"Ah me! After all it is our faults that make life interesting to us—or us interesting to others," and she tossed away her half-smoked cigarette with a shrug.