"I will not hear it—" and her stern face grew sterner.
Justin sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Let me recapitulate,—you remember my father, Sylvester Mercer—"
"Open that window, will you?" interrupted Miss Gastonguay, "this room is stifling."
Justin hastily threw up one of the glass sashes, and allowed the cool river wind to blow into the room. Was the stoical maiden lady about to faint? He judged not, and therefore continued his sentence. "My father, who was cashier of this bank before me—"
"And worth half a dozen young prigs like yourself," mumbled Miss Gastonguay, as she mopped her face with her handkerchief. "I liked him—"
"I know you do not care for me nor for my mother," said Justin, firmly, "yet I also know that, honest as you try to be, words are sometimes but disguises for your thoughts."
"Therefore, when I say I hate you, you know I love you," observed Miss Gastonguay, ironically. The fresh air had revived her, and she felt mistress of herself again.
Justin smiled. "No, I know better than that; however, let me proceed. When I was a lad, my father, finding that I did not care for study, had me enter this bank where I could be trained under his supervision."
"You'll never be as clever as he was," observed Miss Gastonguay, grimly.
"Granted," said Justin, with a slight inclination of his head. "You cannot say any good thing about my father that my heart will not echo. I loved him, and revere his memory. You will perhaps remember that, beside being a man of business, he was foremost in the charitable work of the town—"