“You misunderstand me,” said Mr. Morgan. “I don’t wish to say one word against yourself. However, as you have alluded to the matter I must tell you plainly that I expect my daughter to make a very different marriage. Money I can provide her with. Her husband will supply her with a title.” “What!” cried Frithiof furiously, “you will force her to marry some wretched aristocrat whom she can’t possibly love? For the sake of a mere title you ruin her happiness.” “I shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” said the Englishman, with a touch of dignity. “Sit down, Herr Falck, and listen to me. I would have spared you this had it been possible. You are very young, and you have taken things for granted too much. You believed that the first pretty girl that flirted with you was your future wife. I can quite fancy that Blanche was well pleased to have you dancing attendance on her in Norway, but it was on her part nothing but a flirtation, she does not care for you in the least.” “I do not believe it,” said Frithiof hotly. “Don’t think that I wish to excuse her,” said Mr. Morgan. “She is very much to be blamed. But, she is pretty and winsome, she knows her own power, and it pleases her to use it; women are all of them vain and selfish. What do they care for the suffering they cause?” “You shall not say such things of her,” cried Frithiof desperately. “It is not true. It can’t be true!” His face had grown deathly pale, and he was trembling with excitement. Mr. Morgan felt sorry for him. “My poor fellow,” he said kindly, “don’t take it so hard. You are not the first man who has been deceived. I am heartily sorry that my child’s foolish thoughtlessness should have given you this to bear. But, after all, it’s a lesson every one has to learn; you were inexperienced and young.” “It is not possible!” repeated Frithiof in terrible agitation, remembering vividly her promises, her words of love, her kisses, the expression of her eyes, as she had yielded to his eager declaration of love. “I will never believe it possible till I hear it from her own lips.” With a gesture of annoyance, Mr. Morgan crossed the room and rang the bell. “Well, let it be so, then,” he said coldly. “Blanche has treated you ill; I don’t doubt it for a moment, and you will have every right to hear the explanation from herself.” Then, as the servant appeared, “Tell Miss Morgan that I want her in the drawing-room. Desire her to come at once.” The minutes of waiting which followed were the worst Frithiof had ever lived through. Doubt, fear, indignation, and passionate love strove together in his heart, while mingled with all was the oppressive consciousness of his host’s presence, and of the aggressive superiority of the room and its contents.