He said: "If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall be grateful—and I shall make what effort I can to do my best."
He looked at her and she at him. And for an instant her eyes softened. There was the appeal of weak human heart to weak human heart in his gaze. Her lip quivered. A brief struggle between vanity and love—and vanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating it since earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when love came—it was vanity that won. She stiffened herself and her mouth curled with proud scorn. She laughed—a sneer of jealous rage. "Father," she said, "the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office."
But to men—especially to practical men—differences of rank and position among women are not fundamentally impressive. Man is in the habit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he finds it, and he understands that habit in other men. He was furious with Norman, but he did not sympathize with his daughter's extreme attitude. He said to Norman sharply:
"You say you have broken with the woman?"
"She has broken with me," replied Norman.
"At any rate, everything is broken off."
"Apparently."
"Then there is no reason why the marriage should not go on." He turned to his daughter. "If you understood men, you would attach no importance to this matter. As you yourself said, the woman isn't a lady—isn't in our class. That sort of thing amounts to nothing. Norman has acted well. He has shown the highest kind of honesty—has been truthful where most men would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far." Not without the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as his son-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of his pre-eminent fitness were so rare.
There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had he returned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within her there was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matched vanities—the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of what the world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at that time and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion of any kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, looked arrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears—tears of self-pity. "Send him away, father," she said. "He has tried to degrade me! I am done with him." And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his chair to detain her.
He turned angrily on Norman. "A hell of a mess you've made!" he cried.