The small, wiry figure in the window swung round with a jerk. Gone were the sentimental reflections inspired by the lovely prospect from that window, his daughter the crown and climax of the loveliness. “Why?” he shot at the young man.
Peter shrank only a trifle. He was strong in his strong case. “Because she does not care for me and cares for some one else.”
“That trash again! You refused to release her?”
“Yes, sir,” said Peter, proud of his virtue.
“Well?”
“She released herself.”
Richmond wheeled round, noted his daughter seated in the same place, twirling her pale-blue sunshade and looking idly about. He wheeled back, started for the door.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Peter, “but I am taking the train for town. This puts me in an embarrassing—painful——”
“Wait here,” ordered Richmond, and disappeared.
Peter, discreetly standing well back in the room, watched the father speeding toward the daughter and awaited in nervous suspense the crash of the collision. He marveled that she could sit placidly when she knew exactly what was coming. “She sure is the real thing,” he muttered. “Where can you beat it? A sport—that’s what I call her—a good sport.”