“Like they do about mashed potatoes in Indiana—don’t care whether they’re eating ’em or not?”
“Just so,” laughed she.
Once more he was at the hall door. He turned for a last look and smile. “I’ll be back in an hour, and out home we’ll plan something to take your mind off this unappreciative man.”
Beatrice looked disappointed. “I thought you were going to say plan something to bring him round. That’s what we must do.”
This was the fatal one prod too many at the leashed temper of Richmond. “Don’t irritate me, Beatrice,” he said sharply—a plea verging on a rebuke. “Please try to be a little tactful with me.”
“I see you haven’t changed at all,” cried she, tears in her eyes again—hot tears of a very different kind from those before.
“I thought you wanted to go home,” cried he, struggling with his temper.
“I do—if you are willing to grant me the dearest right a woman has—the right to select her own husband.” She came closer to him, clasped her hands and laid them against his shoulder. And into his eyes gazed hers, innocent, anxious. “Oh, father, won’t you be sensible—reasonable? I’ve got to live with him—not you.”
“I’d do almost anything to please you, my dear. If he were in your class——”
“But that’s just why I want him,” cried she. “Do you think a man like that could grow up in my class?”