“You put it to me in such shape that there is just one thing I can do, and that is keep away and stay away.” “My dear boy, I——” Philip cut him short by turning on his heel. “You have no objection to my calling this afternoon?” “Oh, no. Not at all. It's right that you should.” “Thank you,” said Philip, and took himself off, leaving Mr. Gerard puffing and agitated in the door of his office. Philip was glad that he had carried off the honors of the interview where calmness and dispassion were involved, but he knew that the triumph was a small one, and that Mr. Gerard's turn would come later, when he himself could but compress his lips and suffer. He was thinking of this and bitter revolt was in his heart when he presented himself to Barbara. His face told plainly what he felt. Indeed, it was so apparent that she silently followed him into the parlor. He threw his hat down upon a chair and stood in the center of the room looking at her, wondering how it would be possible to exist, deprived of her companionship. “What is it, Philip? Why don't you tell me?” she at last found courage to ask. “It's what I have known would happen all along. Your father——” “What has my father done?” she interrupted him. “He has told me I must stop coming here.” Barbara's eyes blazed. Her diminutive figure was drawn wrathfully up to its fullest height. “Has he dared to do that—has he dared!” “I felt in honor bound to tell him I had been compelled to spend my savings. He said—he was very kind—that a continuation of my attentions would compromise you, and since my future was very uncertain——” “My life is mine—it belongs to me!” she interposed. “And if I choose to give it to you, it's mine to give. I know what I need better than he does.” “I wish I could have told him how the money went. He evidently attributes my poverty to wild and reckless extravagance. I could see it completely finished me off in his estimation. I wish I could have told—but I couldn't. I can't even tell you.” “It's nobody's affair but your own, and if we are satisfied I don't see what it is to him.” “Just the same, Barbara, he has made it his affair. He is your father, and it is his privilege.” Her little foot tapped the floor angrily. His submission offended her. “It's all right, Barbara.” “It's not all right,” she burst out. “Is it all right that our happiness should be wrecked?” “I don't say that. I refer to his requesting me to cease coming here. He evidently regards me as not the proper sort of person.” “What are you going to do?” “There is but one thing I can do.” “And that?” “Respect his wishes.” “If you do, what is going to become of me?” Philip put his hand to his aching head. That was more than he could tell. He had thought of it, too. His personal pain and anxiety gave him no concern. He had become accustomed to it, but it would be so hard for her. She had not his training in disappointment. What could he do?