“And you love the girls better than you do me, your own husband?”
“No, no, I love you, Victor, and I will show you what a good wife I can make.”
“And we will write to your father and tell him all about it,” said the lad, “and he will forgive, and maybe I can get something to work at in New York. Would you not like to live with him?”
“Oh, indeed I would. That is all I am worrying about, for my father loves me devotedly, and I would not wound his feelings for the world.”
So a penitent letter, filled with sobbing appeals to forgive her, arrived at the Benson mansion, on Fifth avenue, at the appointed time.
The rich man was sitting alone when the butler brought it. He read it and re-read it, and then sat down to think.
This child, whom he loved better than his life, had without his consent married some no-account.
“Victor, Victor Standish; and who is he, pray?”
Then his anger arose, and this is the letter he wrote in reply:
“My Dear Annie: