"I am unable to agree with you. I have never thoroughly approved of your engagement, because, as I told you at the time, I suspected you of recklessness in money matters. Even in accepting your invitation to-night I warned you, as you may remember, not to make the occasion an excuse for foolish extravagance. I come here, and find you in apartments furnished and decorated (as you informed us) by yourself, and on a scale which would be prodigal in a millionaire. You have a suite of retainers which (except for their nationality and imperfect discipline) a prince might envy. You provide a banquet of--hem!--delicacies which must have cost you infinite trouble and unlimited expense--this, after I had expressly stipulated for a quiet family dinner! Not content with that, you procure for our diversion Arab music and dancing of a--of a highly recondite character. I should be unworthy of the name of father, sir, if I were to entrust my only daughter's happiness to a young man with so little common sense, so little self-restraint. And she will understand my motives and obey my wishes." "You're right, Professor, according to your lights," admitted Horace. "And yet--confound it all!--you're utterly wrong, too!" "Oh, Horace," cried Sylvia; "if you had only listened to dad, and not gone to all this foolish, foolish expense, we might have been so happy!" "But I have gone to no expense. All this hasn't cost me a penny!" "Ah, there _is_ some mystery! Horace, if you love me, you will explain--here, now, before it's too late!" "My darling," groaned Horace, "I would, like a shot, if I thought it would be of the least use!" "Hitherto," said the Professor, "you cannot be said to have been happy in your explanations--and I should advise you not to venture on any more. Good-night, once more. I only wish it were possible, without needless irony, to make the customary acknowledgments for a pleasant evening." Mrs. Futvoye had already hurried her daughter away, and, though she had left her husband to express his sentiments unaided, she made it sufficiently clear that she entirely agreed with them. Horace stood in the outer hall by the fountain, in which his drowned chrysanthemums were still floating, and gazed in stupefied despair after his guests as they went down the path to the gate. He knew only too well that they would never cross his threshold, nor he theirs, again. Suddenly he came to himself with a start. "I'll try it!" he cried. "I can't and won't stand this!" And he rushed after them bareheaded. "Professor!" he said breathlessly, as he caught him up, "one moment. On second thoughts, I _will_ tell you my secret, if you will promise me a patient hearing."