She pressed my hand. "I wish you could have told me," she said, in a low voice, "but my father was too clever for you. I understand." "And you forgive me?" I pleaded. "There is nothing to forgive." "Of course there isn't," cried Mabel, kissing Gertrude again, "and don't let this make any difference to our friendship, dear. You will marry Cyrus and I shall marry Dicky--if he goes down on his knees to apologize for daring to ask me again--and everything will be well. But when I meet your father," ended Mabel wrathfully, "I shall speak my mind." "I don't think that you will see him again," said Gertrude quietly. "He has gone to America, and went without a word of farewell or explanation to me. I think he will stop there. I see now that my affection was wasted on him, since he apparently cares for no one but himself." "Never mind." Mabel caressed her. "You have Cyrus." "Yes; thank God for an honest man," and she threw herself on my breast. Mabel looked at us, and walked to the door. "I'll leave you together and go after Cannington. If Dicky's anything of a lover he'll meet me on the road--in his airship, if possible"--and with a laugh to relax the tension of the situation she vanished. Shortly, we heard her open the front door and pass out. Then only did I speak. "Don't worry, Gertrude. He isn't worth it." "He's my father, after all," she moaned; "it's terrible to think that he should deceive me so." "Well, he hasn't done any real harm. He told me that he gave you the whole five hundred a year to yourself, more or less." "That is not true. He has kept me very short." "Hang him, he----" I stopped. After all, as she said, the man was her father, and I could not very well speak what was in my mind to his daughter. "Don't think of him any more, Gertrude," I whispered coaxingly. "I have you and you have me. Let us forget him." "It will be best," she said, drying her eyes, for the ready tears had filled them, and small blame to her. "Do you think papa will come back?" "No. He will probably stop in the States and marry an heiress." "Thank God he will not come back," she muttered, half to herself. "I never want to see him in England again." I thought that this was rather a strained view to take of Monk's delinquencies, seeing how fond Gertrude had been of him until she discovered his true character. But that is the way with true affection: it is all or nothing. Gertrude, a truthful, honest girl, could never trust her father again. "No, I could never trust him," she said, speaking exactly what was in my mind. "He would only deceive me when it suited him. I always knew that my father was more or less selfish, but I looked upon him as a child. His character is not a deep one." "It is deeper than we supposed," I said grimly. "I can see that now, and--and--oh!" she rose and pushed me away--"I must go to my room to think matters over." "What matters?" "What you have told me and--and--others," she stammered.