"But she's mine! If, as you say, she is the daughter of Agnes Glenn there isn't the slightest doubt that she belongs to me. I want to do the right thing by the child. I want to—"
"No use talking, Force. There's but one way."
"But, damn it all, I CAN'T go to my wife with all this! I can't—"
"Then Kathleen stays where she is," said Mr. Bingle firmly.
"Great Scott, man, what difference can it make to you? You can adopt another child to-morrow and fill her place. It isn't as if she were your own child. You don't know what it is to have a child of your own—your own flesh and blood. You CAN'T have a father's feeling for—"
"That will do, Force! You've said enough. The matter stands as it is. I'll tell you something else though before we part: I don't want you coming to this house annoying Agnes Glenn's child. I shall tell my wife all that you have told me and I'd advise you to tell yours, because I don't want you to put your foot inside my door until you can come here with Mrs. Force and humbly—you notice I say humbly?—implore us to give up that which belongs to us by virtue of that old law of salvage. I have already wished you a Merry Christmas, Mr. Force. Now permit me to bid you good morning."
He strode to the study door and opened it. His chin was high and his eyes were uncommonly bright. The hem of the dressing gown was farther from the floor than it had ever been during his ownership.
"I'll think it over, Bingle," muttered Mr. Force, very red in the face as he stalked past the little man and started down the stairs. "Good morning!"
"Good morning!"