Mr. Cameron was in a quandary. On the one side was his desire not to see Loring again or to have Jean meet him; on the other was the fact that he had promised Radlett and that he wished to have him and Jean thrown together. With his usual bluntness he asked his daughter: “Jean, have you thought much of Loring since he left Quentin?” “A great deal, Father.” “Often?” “Very often.” “Damn me! I was afraid of it. But you may as well understand now that I absolutely forbid your thinking of him any more.” “Be careful, Father, that you do not add to my real interest the fictitious one of defiance which has always been strong in the Cameron blood. What I have been thinking all these months about Mr. Loring is that he is a man to whom we are under deep obligation, and one to whom you have been unjust.” “I thought,” said Mr. Cameron helplessly, and foolishly allowing his attack to be changed to defense, “that I had done everything possible for Loring. I do not wish to be thought ungrateful to any man; but that letter—” Jean was touched and coming over to her father, put her arms around him saying: “Can’t you see, Father dear, that the letter he sent to you was the only one which a gentleman could write under the circumstances.” “Perhaps so, perhaps,” answered Mr. Cameron. “And anyhow,” he went on rather weakly, “I have promised Baird, and Jean, I want you to see more of him. He is, I think, of all the men whom I know, the best and the most trustworthy. He told me that some time ago you refused to marry him.” “Yes,” said Jean. “Have you ever changed at all? Do you not like him better than you did? He is the man of all others whom I should rather see you marry.” “I always liked him and I like him better than ever now,” replied Jean, with her usual frankness. “Only it would take me at least a week to fall in love with him,” she added laughing, as she kissed her father and bade him good night.