“Nonsense.” Mannering scratched a match with deliberation and lighted a fresh cigar. “You know nothing about business.”
“But I do. You know I’ve been in town three days a week for six months.”
“Yes.”
“I told you I was studying. You didn’t bother to ask what I was studying. I was at a business college. I’ve taken my course.”
“The devil you say!”
“Uh-huh.” She sprang lightly to her feet. “Mr. Barron knew about it. I told you I had a secret with him and you took no interest. Now—will you be good? I’m going to make money. And save it, for myself. And in two years I’ll have enough to go to New York and study music, and make my own career, and no thanks to anybody.”
Mannering stopped smoking and stared again at the polished toe of his russet shoe. He was silent for a long minute; then he laughed. “The whole scheme is distasteful to me,” he stated in pleasant, even tones. “But I don’t see that I can prevent it. I won’t squabble. I can’t stand family quarrels, but I’m not proud of what you’ve done. There has been an Honor Mannering in this house for a century, but never an Honor Mannering in a business college. Business! Secretary to the head of a knitting-mill! Honor Mannering! Can’t you feel the grotesqueness, the sordidness of it?”
“Not a scrap, dad,” answered the girl blithely. “Of course, I’d rather go at the music now, and leave out the business. But I can’t, so why bother? Mr. Barron’s giving me a thousand a year if I make good. And I will make good. I’ll make so good that I think he’ll give me more the second year. Don’t you see, father—I’ve got to have money! Even—music is just for that. I’m so sick of debt and pretending and keeping up appearances—having a car and a chauffeur and fine clothes, and skimping on meals and the servants’ wages and letting the house go to pieces! It’s demoralizing. You won’t make money; Eric can’t, for ever so long. I’ve got to. And I’ve this voice which has got to do it for me. You see?”
“Not I,” announced Mannering with a shrug. “No woman of my house ever found it incumbent on her before to make money.”
“Honor,” demanded the boy, “is that why you’re taking flowers to McIvor? You’re not—trying to work him?”