“A little,” said Beatrice, who, in fact, was her father’s own daughter—though, of course, she was not foolish enough to have failed to use to its uttermost value the favorite feminine pretense of being hopelessly incapable when it came to matters like business. “Will you do it?”
“How much’ll you have left?” said Peter.
“Plenty,” Beatrice assured him. “Plenty.”
“I know better.”
She made an impatient gesture. “I’ll have more than enough to carry out my plans.”
“There’s no reason on earth why you should do this,” protested he. “You——”
“Drop it, Peter,” said she with a touch of her old imperiousness—of her father’s intolerance of objection from inferior minds. “I know what I’m about. Roger Wade is being stripped of all he has through no fault of his—through my folly. I got him into the scrape—a scrape he wanted to have nothing to do with. It’s up to me to get him out.”
“He had no business to come fooling round you!”
“He didn’t, Peter,” said the girl with convincing candor. “He— I see I’ve got to tell you. I proposed to him, and he refused me.”
“You did—that!”