The Captain stopped and fixed a look of futile dignity on his daughter. "That's a strange word for you to use, Katherine. I would horsewhip the man who would suggest it. Odd is a gentleman." "Decidedly. I did not speak of his point of view but of mine. All frankness of intercourse between us is impossible if you are going to sponge on him." "Katherine! I can't allow such impertinence! Outrageous! It really is! Sponge! Can't a man borrow a few paltry hundreds from another without exposing himself to such insulting language?--especially as Odd is to become my son-in-law, I suppose. He is always hanging about you." "That is what I meant, papa." Katherine's tone was icy. "Your suppositions were apparent to me, you drain Mr. Odd on the strength of them. Borrow from any one else you like as much as you can get, but, if you have any self-respect, you won't borrow from Mr. Odd in the hope that I will marry him." "Devilish impertinent! Upon my word, devilish impertinent!" the Captain muttered. He drew out his cigar-case with a hand that trembled. Katherine's bitter look was very unpleasant. Katherine expected Odd the next morning; he was reading a manuscript to her, and would come early. She was waiting for him at ten. She had put on her oldest dress. The severe black lines, a silk sash, knotted at the side, suggested a soutane--the slim buckled shoes with their square tips carried out the monastic effect, and Katherine's strong young face was cold and stern. "Shall we put off our work for a little while? I want to speak to you," she said, after Odd had come, and greetings had passed between them. "Shall we? You have been too patient all along, Miss Archinard." Odd smiled down at her as he held her hand. "You make me feel that I have been driving you--arrantly egotistic." "No; I like our work immensely, as you know." Katherine remained standing by the fireplace. She leaned her arm on the mantelpiece, and turned her head to look directly at him. "I am not at all happy this morning, Mr. Odd." Odd's kind eyes showed an almost boyish dismay. "What is it? Can I help you?" His tone was all sympathetic anxiety and friendly warmth. "No; just the contrary. Mr. Odd, I am ashamed that you should have seen the depths of our poverty. It is not a poverty one can be proud of. Poverty to be honorable must work, and must not borrow." Odd flushed. "You exaggerate," he said, but he liked her for the exaggeration. "I did not know till yesterday that papa owed to you his Riviera trip." "Really, Katherine"--he had not used her name before, it came now most naturally with this new sense of intimacy--"you mustn't misunderstand, misjudge your father. He couldn't work; his life has unfitted him for it; it would be a false pride that would make him hesitate to ask an old friend for a loan; an old friend so well able to lend as I am. You women judge these things far too loftily." And Peter liked her for the loftiness.