The old man was silent a moment, and then murmured, “O Eros, Eros, thou who blindest! But before I go to see this criminal off, we had better look at the mail. Here’s the statement of royalties. Please open it.”
Jean controlled herself and obeyed, but she looked so long and blankly at the account that her father spoke again.
“Will it be as much as last year?”
“No, daddy, it will be less than two hundred—eight cents less.”
The news was evidently a blow, but the old man took it quietly.
“Jean, considering how many lads are writing text-books, eight cents less than two hundred dollars is a wonderful showing.”
“Father, it is just so wonderful that you’ll have to put the mortgage on. You’d better do it today and be done with it.”
“My brave little woman, I will. Pledges are the inevitable daughters of loss, as Epicharmus remarked long ago before Roman mortgages ruined the world.”
He arose and went to his room for his papers. “Good-by, my comfort. I’ll see Marvin off and be home on the mail boat tomorrow.”
He started for the door, but stopped beside the old couch.