"You're trying to starve me to death," grumbled Hastings.
"Don't you feel better, now that you've got used to it and don't feel hungry?"
"But I'm not getting any nourishment."
"How would eating help you? You can't digest any more than what I'm allowing you. Do you think you were better off when you were full of rotting food? I guess not."
"Well—I'm doing as you say," said the old man resignedly.
"And if you keep it up for a year, I'll put you on a horse. If you don't keep it up, you'll find yourself in a hearse."
Jane stood silently by, listening with a feeling of depression which she could not have accounted for, if she would—and would not if she could. Not that she wished her father to die; simply that Charlton's confidence in his long life forced her to face the only alternative—bringing him round to accept Victor Dorn.
At her father's next remark she began to listen with a high beating heart. He said to Charlton:
"How about that there friend of yours—that young Dorn? You ain't talked about him to-day as much as usual."
"The last time we talked about him we quarreled," said Charlton. "It's irritating to see a man of your intelligence a slave to silly prejudices."