"Not if I tell you to say it, Miss Betty. Why can't you be happy here? You know very well that you would have everything that money could buy."
"But what I want is something—money can't buy."
No reply.
"Miss Darling, what do you mean?"
With a sudden fierce recklessness the girl turned and faced him.
"I mean that—just that—what you did now, and a minute ago. The way you have of—of expecting everybody and everything to bend to your will and wishes. Oh, I know, it's silly and horrible and everything for me to say this. But you made me do it. I told you it was impertinent! Don't you see? I'd have to have love and laughter and sympathy and interest and—and all that around me. I couldn't be happy here. This house is like a tomb, and you—sometimes you are jolly and kind and—and fine. But I never know how you're going to be. And I'd die if I had to worry and fret and fear all the time how you were going to be! Mr. Denby, I—I couldn't live in such a place, and mother couldn't either. And I— Oh, what have I said? But you made me do it, you made me do it!"
For one long minute there was utter silence in the room. Burke Denby, at the library table, sat motionless, his hand shading his eyes. Betty, in her chair, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Her eyes were frightened—but her chin was high.
Suddenly he stirred. His hand no longer shaded his face. Betty, to her amazement, saw that his lips were smiling, though his eyes, she knew, were moist.
"Betty, my dear child, I thought before that I wanted you. I know now I've got to have you."