"You mean to keep it?"
"I must."
"Why?"
"It was my father's wish."
"And yet—you don't like him!"
Looking steadily before her, the girl said tensely: "I loathe him."
"Then," cried P. Sybarite in a joyful voice, "I may tell you something: you needn't marry him."
She turned startled eyes to his, incredulous.
"Need not?"
"I should have said can not—"