As these words flowed fluently from Richmond’s gracious tongue Roger cast at him a furtive glance of amazed suspicion.
“My older daughter,” continued Richmond, “is a thoroughly worldly woman. She has married a title—and is as happy as a normal woman would be over getting the man of her heart’s choice. But my other daughter——”
Roger moved uncomfortably in his chair. Could it be possible— No! No! Ridiculous! And yet—Preposterous! As little danger of it as of Roger himself giving in.
“Beatrice”—Richmond pronounced the name with tenderness—and tenderness now seemed as essentially one of his traits as hardness or cruelty or tyranny— “Beatrice is entirely different. But you know her. You artists read character. I needn’t tell you she is delightfully unworldly—foolishly romantic—need I?”
“No,” said Roger in a hurried, harried way.
“Your painting shows how thoroughly you understood—appreciated her. Wade, one of the finest things I ever knew a man to do was your refusal to take advantage of her inexperienced young imagination. It was noble—noble!”
Roger looked wretched. “I—I don’t deserve that,” was his stammering but vigorous protest. “My motive was altogether different—wholly selfish.”
“Oh, come, now,” cried the older man jocosely, “she’s not so unattractive. A man less scrupulous, less honorable—might easily have fancied himself in love with her. You’ll admit that—won’t you?”
Roger was braced well back in his chair. “Yes,” said he in a tone not remotely suggestive of terror.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Wade,” laughed Richmond.