At that moment the door from the private stairway opened and a young girl came in. Her father had completely forgotten his appointment with her, and both men were taken aback by her entrance. “I knocked, father,” she said, “but you did not hear me.” “In a moment, Edna. Just step into the hall for a moment,” said her father, hurriedly. “I beg of you not to leave, Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, going to the other door and opening it. “Good-night, Mr. Sartwell.” “Good-night,” said the manager, shortly. “Good-night, Miss Sartwell.” “Good-night,” said the girl sweetly, with the suggestion of a bow. The eyes of the two men met for a moment, the obstinacy of the race in each; but the eyes of the younger man said defiantly: “I have spoken to her, you see.” CHAPTER II. We speak of our individuality as if such a thing really existed--as if we were actually ourselves, forgetting that we are but the sum of various qualities belonging to ancestors, most of whom are dead and gone and forgotten. The shrewd business-man in the City imagines that his keen instincts are all his own; he does not recognize the fact that those admirable attributes which enable him to form a joint-stock company helped an ancestor in the Middle Ages to loot a town, or a highwayman of a later day to relieve a fellow-subject of a full purse on an empty heath. Edna Sartwell possessed one visible, undeniable, easily recognized token of heredity: she had her father’s eyes, but softened and luminous and disturbingly beautiful--eyes to haunt a man’s dreams. They had none of the searching rapier-like incisiveness that made her father’s eyes weapons of offence and defence; but they were his, nevertheless, with a kindly womanly difference, and in that difference lived again the dead mother. “Edna,” said her father, when they were alone, “you must not come to this office again.” There was more sharpness in his tone than he was accustomed to use toward his daughter, and she looked up at him quickly. “Have I interrupted an important conference?” she asked. “What did the young man want, father?” “He wanted something I was unable to grant.” “Oh, I am so sorry! He did appear disappointed. Was it a situation?” “Something of the sort.” “And why couldn’t you give it to him? Wasn’t he worthy?” “No, no. No, no!” “He seemed to me to have such a good face--honest and straightforward.” “Good gracious! child, what do you know about faces? Do not interfere in business matters; you don’t understand them. Don’t chatter, chatter, chatter. One woman who does that is enough in a family--all a man can stand.” The daughter became silent; the father pigeonholed some papers, took them out again, rearranged them, and placed them back. He was regaining control over himself. He glanced at his daughter, and saw tears in her eyes.