“Impossible,” said Roger.
“She tells me you refused her. But she still hopes.”
Roger had become red and awkward. “Your daughter is something of a coquette,” he stammered. “But I assure you you are wrong in thinking she— It’s impossible for me to discuss this.” He rose impatiently. “Your daughter does not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry her. That’s the whole story, sir. I must ask you to let me continue my work.”
“If you mean that,” urged Richmond, “you will go to her and tell her so. She’s at the Wolcott—in New York City. You will tell her you do not love her and would not marry her—and she’ll come home.” The father’s voice had grown hoarse and quavering, and in his face there was a piteous humility and wretchedness—such an expression as only a dethroned tyrant can have. “If you knew how her conduct is making me suffer, Mr. Wade, you’d not hesitate to do me—and her—this favor.” That last word of abasement came in little more than a whisper.
Roger seemed to be debating.
“You must realize she is not a fit wife for you—she, brought up to a life of fashion and luxury. And she will never have a cent from me—not a cent!”
Roger had not been listening. “Can’t do it,” he now said. “Sorry, but I can’t.”
“You wish to marry her!” cried Richmond in the frenzy of impotence struggling at its bonds. “You hope!”
Roger, too full of pity for resentment, regarded the old man with friendly eyes. “Mr. Richmond,” said he, “I repeat I do not wish to marry anyone. I have made up my mind, with all the strength of what little good sense I may have, never to marry. I do not believe in marriage—for myself—for people who are doing the sort of thing I’m trying to do. You might as well accuse a Catholic priest of intending to marry.”
“Fudge!” snorted Richmond.