Julius Marston was alone, intrenched behind his desk, on his throne of business; the dark back of the chair, towering over his head, set off in contrast his gray garb and his cold face; to Mayo, who halted respectfully just inside the door, he appeared a sort of bas-relief against that background—something insensate, without ears to listen or heart to bestow compassion.
The girl, hurrying to him, engaged his attention until she had seated herself on the arm of his chair. Then he saw Mayo, recognized him, and tried to rise, but she pushed him back, urging him with eager appeal.
“You must listen to me, father! It is serious! It is important!”
He groped for the row of desk buttons, but she held his hand from them.
Captain Mayo strode forward, determined to speak for himself, rendered bold by the courageous sacrifice the girl was making.
“Not a word! Not a word! The supreme impudence of it!” Marston repeated the last phrase several times with increasing violence. He pushed his daughter off the arm of the chair and struggled up. Only heroic measures could save that situation—and the girl knew her father! She forced herself between him and his desk.
“You'd better listen!” she warned him, hysterically. “A few days ago I ran away to be married!”
He stood there, stricken motionless, and she put her hands against his breast and pressed him back into his chair.
“But this is not the man, father!”
Marston had been gathering his voice for wild invective, but that last statement took away all his power of speech.