Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder. His voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
“Be sensible, boy,” he pleaded softly. “Be sensible!”
Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, his eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.
“Why, Dad,” he said, “she is young. She's just like a child in a hundred ways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers—and everything that's simple and real! And as for her heart—” His voice was low and very tender: “Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known. It's just overflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen her pick up a baby that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that—well, no one could do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean.”
The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake off the feeling, and spoke with a sneer.
“You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as to think that.”
The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faith of love.
“I don't think—I know!”
Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried out sharply in desperation.
“Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just at the beginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out of your thoughts and start fresh.”