"Have, eh—what's it all about?"
"It's about a divorce," she answered.
The lighted match dropped from Roger's hand. He snatched it up before it was out and lit his cigar, and puffing smoke in a vigilant way again he eyed his daughter.
"I've done what I could," she said painfully, "but they seem to have made up their minds."
"Then they'll unmake 'em," he replied, and he leaned forward heavily. "They'll unmake 'em," he repeated, in a thick unnatural tone. "I'm not a'goin' to hear to it!" In a curious manner his voice had changed. It sounded like that of a man in the mountains, where he had been born and raised. This thought flashed into Deborah's mind and her wide resolute mouth set hard. It would be very difficult.
"I'm afraid this won't do, father dear. Whether you give your consent or not—"
"Wun't, wun't it! You wait and see if it wun't!" Deborah came close to him.
"Suppose you wait till you understand," she admonished sternly.
"All right, I'm waiting," he replied. She felt herself trembling deep inside. She did not want him to understand, any more than she must to induce him to keep out of this affair.
"To begin with," she said steadily, "you will soon see yourself, I think, that they fairly loathe the sight of each other—that there is no real marriage left."