"There's no way out, papa. I loved Hayward, and I married him."
"No, no, child, not love. You were infatuated—he was a footman and you are—"
"He was a gentleman," interrupted Helen.
"In a way, perhaps, but uncultured and common—how could—"
"He is a Harvard man," Helen cut in again, "a man of intelligence and education. He is—"
"But a weakling—no genuine Harvard man could be a menial—a flunkey—"
"He's not a weakling, papa. He stooped to the service for love of me. He loved me long before we came here—when he was a student at Harvard. It was so romantic, papa—he saw me first at a football game and he has loved me from that day. He was the hero of the game and he has yet the Harvard pennant I gave him—and, oh, he's a greater hero than that, papa—he was a soldier and he was the trooper that—wait a moment." Helen ran to the door.
"Here, Hayward, give me the knife," she called; and she came running back, holding it out to her father.
"The knife that the trooper stole!" she said, with a pitiful little attempt at gayety in her voice and face.
"What's that?" her father asked harshly.