One day—and it was the last feather in the scale, the little balance necessary to weigh it down—Mr. Arkell summoned his son to a private interview. It was only what Travice had been expecting.
"Travice, what is your objection to Miss Fauntleroy?"
"I can't bear the sight of her," returned Travice, curling his lips contemptuously. "Can you, sir?"
Mr. Arkell smiled. "There are some who would call her a fine woman, Travice: she is one."
"A fine vulgar woman," corrected Travice, with a marked stress upon the word. "I always had an instinctive dread of vulgar people myself. I certainly never could have believed I should voluntarily ally myself with one."
"Never marry for looks, my boy," said Mr. Arkell in an eager whisper. "Some, who have done so before you, have awoke to find they had made a cruel mistake."
"Most likely, sir, if they married for looks alone."
Mr. Arkell glanced keenly at his son. "Travice, have I your full confidence? I wish you would give it me."
"In what way?" inquired Travice. "Why do you ask that?"
"Am I right in suspecting that you have cherished a different attachment?"