His eyes shifted. When a father seriously makes the threat to cut off a son or a daughter, however great the reflection upon the father, it is greater upon the son or daughter. Eleanor Clearwater had lived under her father’s eye all the years of her life. He knew her--knew her character--respected it, feared it, as baser character ever fears finer. And stronger than his aversion to the George Helm sort of man, stronger than his passion for autocratic rule, stronger even than his reverence for his wealth, was--of necessity--his fear lest his daughter should justly estimate him, should lose her delusion as to his true nature. Our conduct is less a measure of ourselves than of those about us--those whose opinions we respect, those of whom we feel the need. George Clearwater gave up the struggle. Eleanor had won, not because her father doted upon her--for mere doting readily turns toward hate when its object offends--but because he respected her. Said he: “If you marry him, it’s without my consent. It’s against my wishes.” His tone of gloomy resignation told her that she had won. She was astonished; for from time to time there had been in his voice a note that set her to quivering with alarm lest she should have to face the alternative of breaking with him or with George Helm. And it seemed to her that in choosing Helm she would show herself selfish, unappreciative of all her father had done for her and would make her love for him look a poor feeble unmasked pretense. Said she demurely: “You’ll let us marry here?” He made an angry gesture. “I don’t want a scandal.” “You being rich,” she went on adroitly, “a story that you were snobbish would be put out, if we married anywhere else.” “I don’t care a damn what people think or say,” retorted he so violently that she knew her shot had penetrated. “But I do,” replied she. “I want you to be vice-president, and I’d hate to be even indirectly the cause of anything that might interfere. You remember, Mr. Sayler said my marrying George Helm would make you more attractive as a candidate.” “You weren’t thinking of marrying anyways soon!” cried he, angry and alarmed. “George wants us to be inaugurated together. He goes in the first of January.” Clearwater began to pace the room with quick, nervous steps. “That means right away,” he said. “Oh, no, papa. In about two weeks.” He stopped before her. “And what’s to become of _me_?” “Why, I’ll be with you almost as much as ever. We’ve always been separated most of the time--your fault, not mine. And I’m not going to take Aunt Louisa away from you.” “You are a heartless girl!” “Father, for several years you’ve been urging me to marry. I’ve heard you tell dozens of people that you wanted to see your grandchildren.” At the thought of _his_ grandchildren the children of George Helm, Clearwater became purple and abruptly left the room. Also, he _had_ been urging Eleanor to marry.