“With the—what?”
“Oh, I forgot I hadn’t told you,” said she with a smile. “Valentine and I—and Monsieur Léry, whom she is marrying—are starting a dressmaking shop.”
Richmond stood up straight, and his scanty hair and thick eyebrows seemed to be assisting materially in making him the embodiment of horrified amazement.
“Don’t be alarmed, father. The name over the door is not to be Richmond or Beatrice, but Valentine—though, of course, I’ll take part openly. I want everybody to know, because I intend to make loads and loads of money. You’ve no idea of the profits in fashionable dressmaking. Eighty—a hundred—a hundred and fifty per cent!”
“You are joking!”
She pretended to misunderstand. “No—fully that,” she cried delightedly.
“Beatrice! I forbid it.”
“But I’m not asking you to invest,” laughed she. “In fact, we don’t want any more capital or partners. Personally, I wish Léry were an employee instead of a partner. But Valentine would insist, I’m sure——”
“You will drive me mad!” exclaimed her father, throwing his arms about wildly. “This folly is worse than the infatuation for that artist!” And he started up, fumed about the room, sank exhausted and trembling into a chair. “You’ll be the death of me!” he gasped.
“Now, do be reasonable, father,” she urged. “Why shouldn’t I use my talents for business and for dress and make myself rich? Don’t talk to me about what people will think. I don’t care. I’ve found out what people are worth. Why, even my friend, Allie Kinnear, hasn’t been near me.”