Her father stared, astounded; her expression made her words as far as possible from impulsive or careless.
“I see you haven’t changed at all. If I went back the same trouble would break out again—only worse. Besides, what chance would I have to get him? You’d work against me secretly if you didn’t openly. No—I don’t trust you. I must make up my mind to shift for myself.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” he ejaculated. “Are you stark mad?”
“No. I’m becoming sane,” said she quietly. “Won’t you sit down a minute?”
Richmond seated himself meekly. The fear that had brought him there to apologize was chilling his hot temper.
“I left home partly because of Roger Wade,” she proceeded to explain, “but not altogether. There was another reason—as strong—maybe stronger. You had opened my eyes to the truth about myself—to what a degraded position I was in.”
“Degraded?” echoed he wonderingly. Then, somewhat like an alienist humoring an insane patient: “But go on, my dear.”
“I had been imagining all along that I was free. I suddenly found that I wasn’t free at all—that I had to do what you said—even about the things that meant my whole life—had to do as you ordered or lose all the things you had made necessities to me—all the luxury and the enjoyments and the friends even. I saw I wasn’t anything in myself—nothing at all—and I had been going round with my head high, so proud and so pleased with myself! I understood why Roger Wade didn’t think me worth while. I understood why you could treat me contemptuously.”
“Is that all?” inquired her father, when she paused for a reflective silence.
“No—just a little more. So—I’m not going back home with you—not just now. I’m going on with the dressmaking.”