“How?” the young woman gazed at him searchingly. He shifted uneasily and glanced at his sister-in-law. “In art?” Miss Anthon pursued, “in encouraging young artists instead of young financiers?”
“You have begun to explode, Adela,” the old man replied with gentle humour. “Be careful about it, and remember, it doesn’t pay, it doesn’t pay.”
“Does the other thing pay?”
He was silent.
When Wilbur came by appointment an hour later, Mrs. Anthon restrained herself with difficulty from breaking out in reproaches. Her daughter watched her closely, with a determined face. She had to content herself by rushing past Wilbur brusquely without a word of greeting or good-by.
Wilbur was not too blind to see that he was persona non grata; Sebastian Anthon’s chill politeness was enough to indicate the family attitude. But his absorption in the plans for the coming campaign made it easy to take Mrs. Anthon’s snub and the old man’s suspicious airs. When the two young people were left alone, Wilbur remarked apologetically,—
“You have been awfully plucky.”
“What about?” Miss Anthon replied shortly.
“The row your new investment has made. I am sorry your mother and uncle don’t see it the way we do; but, then, they couldn’t be expected to.”
“No, they couldn’t.”