“It is unanswerable,” was Richmond’s final, sweeping concession.
“Unanswerable,” echoed the painter decisively, yet with a curious note of unhappiness.
“But,” pursued Beatrice’s father, “what would you do—if you fell in love?” And, ignoring the painter’s confusion in the bursting of this bomb, he went on with an air of philosophic impartiality: “Love laughs at reason—at ambition—at calculation of every kind. Yes—I—about the last man in the world to be suspected of sentimentality—I say that love is supreme master.”
Roger, with an air of youthful positiveness—cocksureness—made a gesture of strong dissent.
Richmond smiled, went on: “Yes, young man—yes! When love commands we all obey—you—I—all—we obey. We may squirm—struggle—but we surrender. What would you do if you fell in love?”
Roger leaned forward in his chair, looked firmly into the keen, kindly eyes of Beatrice’s father. “I should fly,” said he slowly.
The two men regarded each other steadily, each reading the other’s mind. And again beneath the young and romantic handsomeness Richmond saw the man with whom his daughter was not yet acquainted—the man with the great character gracefully concealed behind the romantic-looking painter—a character in the making as yet, but having the imposing outlines that enable one to imagine something of the final form. At last Richmond said: “Yes—I believe—you—could—fly—and would.”
Roger flushed and his gaze sank. “I should feel that I was false to all that means myself to me if I did not,” said he. “No matter how I loved her I would fly.”
“And she?” inquired Richmond. “What about her?”
Roger smiled faintly—a sardonic smile. “Women forget their caprices easily.”