“However it was,” she rushed on, “that question came up. And I didn’t know then whether I would or would not. Well, I know now.”
“Your father is impatient.”
“I’m sure I would,” she said, a fascinating haughty humility in her face, in her voice. And she looked so brilliantly young and ardent.
Roger’s glance fled before hers. A brief electric silence, then he laughed pleasantly. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t. And it doesn’t matter whether you would or wouldn’t. Good-by, Rix. Your father’s look is aimed to kill.”
“How cruel you are—and how blind!” she cried, eyes and cheeks aflame. And as quickly as she had come she sped away to rejoin her father.
Roger heaved a great sigh. “Now,” said he aloud, “I’ve seen the last of her. I can resume.”
VIII
AN INFURIATE FATHER
“I suppose you went back to apologize for me,” said her father as they started on together.
“You don’t understand him,” replied she miserably. “Artists—great artists—are different.”
“He is a good deal of a man. D’Artois was right. I’ll see that he does those panels.” And Richmond gave the nod of a man who has money and knows that money is all-powerful.