“Oh, we couldn’t do that, papa dear,” said she with a plaintive mingling of shame for me and apology for the tradition against sense and health.
“Let’s get to business, Margot,” said I. “Sit in the fireplace—that’s right. What’s the trouble? Your mother has explained—has told all she knew. I’ve come to find what the quarrel is really about.”
“Has she told you of that woman?”
“Why did he go back to her?”
She began to sob. “Oh, the hideous things he said to me! I didn’t dream a gentleman could talk like that. He called me a low American—said he was ashamed of me—said he was going to get rid of me at any cost, said——”
“But what had you done!” interrupted I.
“Nothing!” she cried, lifting her flushed face. “Absolutely nothing—except worship him.”
“What had you done?” I repeated. As she started to rise I restrained her. “Stay in the fireplace. What was the beginning of the row—the very beginning?”
Her eyes wavered, but she said: “Nothing, papa!” though less vigorously.
“It was about money,” said I. “It always is—in all ranks of society. The beginnings of the quarrels have money at the bottom of them. Now—tell me!”