Emmet had taken his seat at the bishop's request, but this cynical proposal to buy him off caused him to spring to his feet again in an indignation that was not altogether unjustified. He was a money-maker himself, and had not coveted Felicity's wealth. From her he had sought only social advantage and revenge upon his enemies; but it was his pride to be the builder of his own fortune.
"If you were not an old man," he said tempestuously, "you would not make such an offer with impunity. You will find I have no price. I wish you good day."
"Wait!" the bishop cried, raising his trembling hand and clearing his throat from suffocating emotion. "Only one word more. You shall not have her—that is all. And this house is mine—you shall not enter it again."
The other's face became diabolical in its passion. He leaned against the jamb of the open door and folded his arms mockingly, as if inviting an effort to eject him.
"You were speaking pretty freely of statutory grounds," he said, raising his voice. "It has n't occurred to you, perhaps, that I may name a co-respondent myself. You ought to have a care, bishop, what kind of professors you employ in your college." With these words he turned and strode from the house.
The bishop's speechless indignation presently gave way to the first touch of pity he had yet felt for Felicity in her trouble. The mayor was more of a brute than even he had thought possible, and should receive no quarter in the future. The front door had scarcely closed when his daughter's figure took the place her husband had just occupied before him.
"Well?" she asked simply.
He searched her face with haggard eyes, and guessed from its pallor that his fears were justified.
"Did you hear what the fellow said," he demanded—"his last words?"
The colour came back to her cheeks with a rush. "I could n't very well help it. I was in the dining-room, and the door was open."