"Intentions honourable?" demanded the infuriated father. "They are, sir." "Arranged the weddin’-day yet?" "Not yet." "Waitin’, maybe, for father’s blessing and a snug settlement?" James only smiled deprecatingly, but Posy exclaimed: "And why not? Isn’t it your duty to provide for me? It’s your fault, not mine, that I can’t cook, or wash, or sew." "What a sauce!" said Quinney, lifting his congested eyes to heaven. "Mother, you go and stand between ’em." Susan obeyed, muttering to herself and shaking her head. She placed a trembling hand upon Posy’s sleeve. Posy saw the tears and kissed her. Quinney continued more fluently, speaking with deliberation, for he had rehearsed carefully this part of the scene. "Now, Miss Impudence, ain’t I been a good father to you? No quibblin’! Ain’t I been a tip-top parent to you?" "I don’t quite know." "What you say?" "I said I didn’t quite know." "Well, I’m fairly jiggered! Ain’t I given’ you everything a girl wants?" Posy remained silent. Can we describe Quinney’s astonishment and dismay, when Susan said curtly and clearly: "Indeed you haven’t." Posy added, hesitatingly: "I have wanted things you didn’t give me." "Of all the shameless hussies! Now, you answer straight. It’d take a month o’ Sundays to tell you what I have given you, but you tell me what I’ve not given." Susan answered with a promptitude indicating previous consideration of the question. "Be fair, Joe! You’ve not given the child your confidence or your sympathy. You don’t know what books she reads; you don’t know anything about her except what’s on the surface." "Hark to this!" "You heard her say just now, when we was behind the screen, that she didn’t know whether you loved her. That’s something a girl ought to know, isn’t it?" "Go it! Love her? Love my daughter? You know that I love her." "As she said, this is going to be a test of that." "See here, Susan! Are you on my side or on hers?" "I’m trying to stand between you, Joe—trying hard to keep the peace, and—and to be just." "Just? You dare to hint that I don’t love my child?" Very slowly, Susan answered him. What it cost the faithful soul to speak the truth, as she conceived it to be, no male scribe can set forth. To her his question embodied the hopes and fears of all her married life, what she had suppressed so valiantly, so successfully, that he had never been vouchsafed a glimpse of her tormented sensibilities. To her this was the supreme moment when she must speak plainly, or for ever hold her peace. "You love old furniture, Joe, old china, tapestries, and lacquer cabinets. You love them too well, dear. They have crept between you and Posy, between you—and me." The dreariness of her voice smote her husband. Had they been alone, he would have melted; but James was present—James, whom he despised, James, whom he knew to be unworthy. Unable to deal adequately with Susan’s pathetic indictment, he turned savagely on the young man.