That silenced her, for the moment at least, and he swept rapidly on.
"I do not in the least approve of your giving your money to establish a foundation at all. That, however, is a matter with which, unfortunately, I have nothing to do. But with my father's name I have everything to do. I shall not permit you to—"
"Surely—oh, surely, you will not refuse me so small a thing which would give me so much happiness."
"Happiness?" He flung the word back at her impatiently, but his intention of demolishing it was suddenly checked by a flashing remembrance of Fifi's definition of it. "Will you kindly explain how you would get happiness from that?"
"Oh—if you don't see, I am afraid I—could never explain—"
"It is a display of just the same sort of unthinking Quixotism which has led you hitherto to refuse to accept your own money. What you propose is utterly irrational in every way. Can you deny it? Can you defend your proposal by any reasonable argument? I cannot imagine how so—so mad an idea ever came into your mind."
She sat still, her fingers playing with the frayed edges of Mr. Dayne's blotting-pad, and allowed the silence to enfold them once more.
"Your foundation," he went on, with still further loss of motive power, "would—gain nothing by bearing the name of my father. He was not worthy.... No one knows that better than you. Will you tell me what impulse put it into your mind to—to do this?"
"I—had many reasons," said she, speaking with some difficulty. "I will tell you one. My father loved him once. I know he would like me to do something—to make the name honorable again."
"That," he said, in a hard voice, "is beyond your power."