"I know, I know," she told him in cold disdain. "I am content. Won't you be kind enough to leave me alone?"
For a breath, Calendar glowered over her; then, "I presume," he observed, "that all these heroics are inspired by that whipper-snapper, Kirkwood. Do you know that he hasn't a brass farthing to bless himself with?"
"What has that—?" cried the girl indignantly.
"Why, it has everything to do with me, my child. As your doting parent, I can't consent to your marrying nothing-a-year.... For I surmise you intend to marry this Mr. Kirkwood, don't you?"
There followed a little interval of silence, while the warm blood flamed in the girl's face and the red lips trembled as she faced her tormentor. Then, with a quaver that escaped her control, "If Mr. Kirkwood asks me, I shall," she stated very simply.
"That," interposed Kirkwood, "is completely understood." His gaze sought her eyes, but she looked away.
"You forget that I am your father," sneered Calendar; "and that you are a minor. I can refuse my consent."
"But you won't," Kirkwood told him with assurance.
The adventurer stared. "No," he agreed, after slight hesitation; "no, I shan't interfere. Take her, my boy, if you want her—and a father's blessing into the bargain. The Lord knows I've troubles enough; a parent's lot is not what it's cracked up to be." He paused, leering, ironic. "But,"—deliberately, "there's still this other matter of the gladstone bag. I don't mind abandoning my parental authority, when my child's happiness is concerned, but as for my property—"
"It is not your property," interrupted the girl.