“That is the reason the good God permitted me to be born, I suppose—to sacrifice some ten or fifteen years of man’s allotted span in accumulating millions with which to prop up a rotten aristocracy.”
“Papa! I never knew you to be so bitter. You are quite unlike yourself this morning. Of course, we don’t all look at things in the same way in this world. But I don’t wish you to think that I have entirely forsaken my old principles. I should do much good with my money in England. The poverty is said to be frightful there; and I hear that the working-men on the great estates only get a pound a week, and sometimes less. I should pay those on our estates more, my self.”
“It doesn’t occur to you, I suppose, that American-made millions should be spent in America, and that we have poverty enough of our own.”
“Our poor are mostly Europeans,” she retorted quickly.
He gave a brief laugh. “You have me there. Well; go on. You intend to reform this poor little trembling sore-eyed weak-kneed, debauchee——”
“Father! I will not permit you to speak in that way of the Duke of Bosworth.”
She had sprung from her chair. Like all phlegmatic natures, when the depths were stirred she was violent and ugly. She looked as if about to leap upon her parent and beat him.
He rose also and looked down on her. “You will not do what?” he said with a cutting contempt. “Go upstairs to your room, and stay there until I give you permission to leave it. And understand here, once for all, that not one dollar of mine will ever go into that man’s pocket. If he marries you, he will have to support you, or you him: I shall not take the trouble to enquire which.”
CHAPTER XVII.
Mr. Forbes was obliged to go that morning to Boston, to remain until the following evening. He did not see his wife before he left—had not seen her since the interview in the library. She had locked herself in her room, and he was not the man to hammer on a sulking woman’s door.