At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated. "Father," she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulged child, "I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. I thought I had your promise."
"I said I'd think about it," replied her father. He had a heavy voice that now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano in the corner to a dismal groan. "I've decided to speak out."
"That's right, sir," said Norman. "Is your quarrel with me?"
Josephine attempted an easy laugh. "It's that silly story we were talking about the other day, Fred."
"I supposed so," said he. "You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs—" He laughed amiably—"at least not a cigar."
"The doctor only allows me one, and I've had it," replied Burroughs, his eyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip. "What is the truth about that business, Norman?"
Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. "Why do you ask?" he inquired.
"Because my daughter's happiness is at stake. Because I cannot but resent a low scandal about a man who wishes to marry my daughter."
"Very proper, sir," said Norman graciously.
"My daughter," continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, "tells me you have denied the story."