“What would father say if he saw you now!” said she.
The eagerness whisked out of his face.
“That’s better,” mocked she. “But I’ll not tease you, Hanky—with your soul torn between love and money. I shall take the whole responsibility. I shall refuse to marry you.”
But Peter continued to look depressed. “Your father’ll think it was something I said.”
“My father will not think I could have been discouraged that easily—or at all—if I wished to be your wife. He’ll know you are too fond of money to risk losing any. Don’t be alarmed, Peter. Father will understand the instant you tell him.”
“I tell him!” cried Peter. “You’ll have to do that yourself. You’re used to him. You don’t realize how he gets on my nerves. If I tried to tell him I’d get permanent paralysis of the tongue before a word came.”
“What a stupid you are! Don’t you see that I’m letting you tell him, as a favor—to help you to escape? You go to him—complain of me—urge him to make me keep my promise. Understand?”
Peter saw it, looked humble apology.
“Put it to him as strong as you like,” pursued Beatrice. “You can’t make it any worse for me, and you’ll make it a lot better for yourself.”
Peter looked at her so admiringly that she sent him away on the instant. She knew him—knew how easily she could get him back if she wished, and how little it would take to make him forget his resentment at her failure to appreciate him and at her father’s energetic methods—and his dread of what life with so strenuous a will as hers might mean. “Tell him right away, Hanky,” advised she, pointing with her sunshade to where Richmond stood in the library window observing them. “Let’s get it over with.”