“Wisha then——”
“Stop! I tell you that she’s in my employment on a salary. Don’t ever touch a penny of it again.”
“Sure the child’s wages——”
“No, they don’t belong to the father. Legally, perhaps, but the law doesn’t suit me. So if you take the money that she earns, and blow it in at Grogan’s, I’ll have to discharge her because I won’t stand for what you are doing.”
“Would you do that, Mr. Barres?”
“I certainly would.”
The Irishman scratched his curly head in frank perplexity.
“Dulcie needs clothes suitable to her age,” continued Barres. “She needs other things. I’m going to take charge of her savings so don’t you attempt to tamper with them. You wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway, Soane, if this miserable drink habit hadn’t got a hold on you. If you don’t quit, it will down you. You’ll lose your place here. You know that. Try to 121 brace up. This is a rotten deal you’re giving yourself and your daughter.”
Soane wept easily. He wept now. Tearful volubility followed—picturesque, lit up with Hibernian flashes, then rambling, and a hint of slyness in it which kept one weeping eye on duty watching Barres all the while.
“All right; behave yourself,” concluded Barres. “And, Soane, I shall have three or four people to dinner and a little dancing afterward. I want Dulcie to enjoy her graduating dance.”