‘Papa, I should be sorry to offend you,’ said Beatrix, with a quiet resoluteness that took him by surprise, ‘but the consideration of your wealth would not influence me in the least. I have seen that money cannot bring happiness,’ she went on, unconsciously repeating Cyril’s argument, ‘and I can let the chance of being rich slip by me without a pang. I have quite made up my mind to marry Cyril--to share his poverty, and be his patient, hard-working wife--if he will have me.’ ‘You deliberately announce your intention to disobey me!’ cried Mr. Harefield, pale with indignation. ‘You have never given me love. Cyril loves me. Can you expect me to obey you at the sacrifice of that love? Do you think it is reasonable, father?’ ‘Ah!’ sighed Christian Harefield, ‘it is in the blood--it is in the blood! It would not be natural for her to love me.’ He paced the room two or three times, through the sombre shadows, leaving Beatrix standing by the hearth. Then he came slowly back, and seated himself in the large arm-chair beside the fire. He bent over the logs and stirred them into a blaze. The broad yellow light leaped up and filled the room with brightness. The grinning faces in the carved bookcases came to life, the tarnished gilding of the books seemed new again. ‘Now listen to me, Beatrix,’ he said, without looking up from the fire. ‘You complain that I have given you no love. Well, perhaps your complaint is not baseless. The fountain of my affections was poisoned at its spring--years ago. If I had loved you my love would have been baneful. Better that I should lock my heart against you, that you should grow up at my side almost as a stranger, near and yet far off. You have so grown up, and, according to my lights, I have done my duty to you as a father. Now comes the question of obedience. You repudiate my claim to that. I will put the question in another way. I appeal to your self-interest. Mr. Culverhouse loves you, you think. Very probably he does. You are young, handsome, and considering it to his advantage to fall in love with you, he may have found the task easy. But be assured that he loves the heiress better than he loves the woman--that he looks to your fortune as a stepping-stone to his advancement. He is ambitious, no doubt. All these Churchmen are. They assume the religion of humility, and yet languish for power. Every country vicar is at heart a Pope, and believes in his own infallibility. Mr. Culverhouse knows that a rich wife is the shortest cut to a deanery.’ ‘Put him to the test,’ cried Beatrix. ‘Let him take me without a sixpence.’