Thus far Bob had yielded precedence to his father, but he could no longer restrain himself. "Now let me take the chair," he commanded, easily. "My mind is made up. You see, I didn't marry 'Peter Knight, residence Vale,' nor 'James Knight, reputation bad,' nor even 'Mathilda Knight, wife of Peter.' I married this kid, and the books are closed. You say the Knights are a bad lot, and Lorelei's reputation is a trifle discolored: maybe you're right, but mine has some inky blots on it, too, and I guess the cleanest part of it would just about match the darkest that hers can show. I seem to have all the best of the deal." "Don't be an ass," growled his father. "I've always been one--I may as well be consistent" Bob felt the slender form at his side begin to tremble, and smiled down into the troubled blue eyes upturned to his. "Maybe we'll both have to do some forgiving and forgetting. I believe that's usual nowadays." "Oh, I'm not whitewashing you," Hannibal snapped. "She probably knows what you are." "I do," agreed Lorelei. "He's a--drunkard, and everything that means. But you taught him to drink before he could choose for himself." Mr. Wharton smiled sneeringly. "Admirable! I begin to see that you're more than a pretty woman. Get his sympathy; it's good business. Now he'll think he must act the man. But that will wear off. And understand this: you can't graft off me. You and your family are due for a great disappointment. Bob hasn't anything, and he won't have until I die, but I'm good for thirty years yet. I'm not going to disinherit him. I'm merely going to wait until you both get tired. Take my word for it, poverty is the most tiresome thing in the world." "We can manage," said Lorelei. "You speak for yourself, but he can't make a living--unless he has something in him that I never discovered. I fear you'll find him rather a heavy burden." Throughout the interview Mr. Wharton had kept his temper quite perfectly, and his coolness at this moment argued a greater fixity of purpose than might have been inferred from a display of rage. He made a final appeal to his son: "Can't you see that it won't do at all, Bob? I won't stand parasites, unless they're my own. Either have done with the matter and let me pay the charges or--go through to the bitter finish on your own feet. She's supporting three loafers; I dare say she can take care of another, but it isn't quite right to put it upon her--she's sure to weary of it sometime. You'll notice I've said nothing about your mother so far, but--she's with me in this. I'll be in the city for several days, and I'd like to have you return to Pittsburg with me when I go. Mother is expecting you. If you decide to stick it out--" Wharton's face showed more than a trace of feeling, his deep voice lowered a tone--"you may go to hell, with my compliments, and I'll sit on the lid to keep you there." He rose, took his hat, and stalked out of the apartment without so much as a backward glance. CHAPTER XVIII