“There are lots of clever painters about—lots of ’em.”
“I don’t care anything about his painting,” exclaimed she impatiently. “I don’t know anything about it. I’m speaking of him as a man. A woman doesn’t marry a talent—or a family—or a fortune. She wants a man. Of course, if she can’t get a man, why, one of the other things is better than nothing. But I can get a man, father—if you’ll help me!”
“Peter’s almost as tall—and quite as handsome—and much more like your sort of looking man.”
“Father—father—how can you! And you have a sense of humor, too!”
“It’s fortunate for you, my dear, that Wade has the good sense to see he would be ill at ease out of his own class. If he were willing, and I were foolish, and you married him—how wretched you’d be when the awakening came!”
The girl turned sadly away. “You don’t believe in love,” she said with bitterness. “You don’t believe in anything but money.”
“I want to see my daughter happy,” said Richmond with a melancholy, reproachful dignity that made her ashamed of herself.
“Yes—I know you do, father,” said she. “But”—with a look of hesitation that might readily have been mistaken for weakness—“I see I must go my own way.”
Richmond reflected that this did not mean much, as Roger Wade was firmly set against marriage. So he said, with hypocritical resignation: “Very well, my dear. Do as you like. All I want is you to come home.”
Beatrice slowly shook her head. “I can’t go,” said she.