"I am sorry, father, but I do go in spite of your feelings."
"Then we will cease to talk over why you go. We have too little time to talk of the way in which you go. You are a rich woman, Katherine."
"I know it, father."
"Since your mother died I have toiled for you; I have added pound to pound, and hundred to hundred, and thousand to thousand—and all has been for you. And if I died to-morrow, you would find yourself one of the greatest heiresses in London. You would have a cool million of your own—yes, a cool million—to do exactly what you liked with. And if I live another ten years, God only knows how many millions you may have. The American heiresses will be nothing to you. And it's money in consols, mind you, as safe as the Bank of England. And I have done it—I, your father, David Hunt."
"There never was such a daddy," said the girl.
"It seems to me that you don't think much of him. But there, I am getting personal, and I don't wish to be that. But you will understand that, as you have made up your mind to do this foolhardy, mad, and reckless thing, you must do it comfortably—you must do it in the best possible way. There is to be no stint, mind you. When you want to draw on me, draw. I will give you a cheque book, and I'll sign every cheque, and you can fill in any amount you fancy. Can I do more than that?"
"No one else would do as much," she said.
"And you will take care of yourself, Kate? you won't run needlessly into risk? you won't try to catch that abominable fever, which they say tracks our armies like the plague, will you, Kate?"
"I will do my utmost to keep well for two reasons: first, because of you—because I want to come back to you; because each single hour I spend away from you, my heart will be drawn and drawn, as if a great pain were pulling me to your side."
"Don't, Kate; you are abominably sentimental."