"I don't blame him for getting bitter and turning against society," continued she. "I'd have done the same thing—and so would you."
Hastings lit the cigar. "They wanted ten thousand dollars," he said, almost apologetically. "Why, they never saw ten thousand cents they could call their own."
"But they lost their bread-winner, father," pleaded the girl. "And there were young children to bring up and educate. Oh, I hate to think that—that we had anything to do with such a wrong."
"It wasn't a wrong, Jen—as I used to tell your ma," said the old man, much agitated and shrill of voice. "It was just the course of business. The law was with our company."
Jane said nothing. She simply gazed steadily at her father. He avoided her glance.
"I don't want to hear no more about it," he burst out with abrupt violence. "Not another word!"
"Father, I want it settled—and settled right," said the girl. "I ask it as a favor. Don't do it as a matter of business, but as a matter of sentiment."
He shifted uneasily, debating. When he spoke he was even more explosive than before. "Not a cent! Not a red! Give that whelp money to run his crazy paper on? Not your father, while he keeps his mind."
"But—mightn't that quiet him?" pleaded she. "What's the use of having war when you can have peace? You've always laughed at people who let their prejudices stand in the way of their interests. You've always laughed at how silly and stupid and costly enmities and revenges are. Now's your chance to illustrate, popsy." And she smiled charmingly at him.
He was greatly softened by her manner—and by the wisdom of what she said—a wisdom in which, as in a mirror, he recognized with pleasure her strong resemblance to himself. "That wouldn't be a bad idea, Jen," said he after reflection, "IF I could get a guarantee."