“You’ve got the picture as an excuse. You know, father thinks we met Roger in Europe.”
“Yes—yes—I had forgotten.... I don’t know what possesses me! I can’t understand myself, even thinking of helping you in such an absurd, idiotic thing as marrying a poor artist.”
“A poor man—not a poor artist,” laughed Beatrice.
“I suppose,” went on Mrs. Richmond, “it must be for the pleasure of seeing your father defeated in something he has set his heart on. He has trampled me so often I’d like to see him humbled once.”
“You ought to have seen him when I told him I was going into the dressmaking business.”
“Beatrice!” cried her mother—and her expression of horrified amazement was a fit companion for that of Richmond.
“I’m going to make stacks of money,” said Beatrice carelessly. “You know I’ve got taste—and a good business head.”
“Didn’t your father forbid you?” demanded her mother, quivering with agitation.
“Yes—and I reminded him I was of age.”
“Why, it’ll ruin us all!” wailed Mrs. Richmond. “Beatrice, I do believe you’ve lost your mind.”