Despite the tragedy of the moment a faint smile drew back the corners of his mouth. "That's two thousand a year--that doesn't begin to pay for your clothes." "I shall wear different clothes. It will be enough." "Very well." His face became grim. "And I have my reason why I cannot give you anything! Do you realise, Helen, that you are driving me, in order to protect my reputation, to disown you publicly if you marry Mr. Aldrich?" She did not reply. "But don't forget," he went on after a moment, "that you are escaping my fortune only temporarily. It will all go to you on my death." "No--no! I don't want it!" "But you can't escape it, if I choose to leave it to you." "If you do," she said slowly, "I shall use it to make restitution, as far as I can, to the people it--it came from." She added, almost breathlessly, "Why not do that now, father? It's the thing I've been wanting to ask you, but have not dared." "I have not noticed any lack of daring," he observed grimly. There was a brief silence. "Then this is all," she said. Suddenly she stretched out her arms to him, and tears sprang into her eyes. "Forgive me, father!--forgive me!" Standing very erect, his hands folded before him, he gazed fixedly into her imploring face while his mind comprehended their new relations. She dared a step nearer and laid a hand upon his arm. "Forgive me--won't you please, father?" she whispered. His face twitched, and he put his hands on her shoulders almost convulsively. "You're taking my heart out!" he said huskily. "Forgive me!" she sobbed. "I can't help it! I'm the way God made me." "And God made you very much like your mother," he said, his mind running back to scenes not unlike this. He drew her to him and she flung her arms about his neck and they kissed. "I love my father--I always shall--it's the business man that"--but her voice trailed away into sobs. They drew apart. "We shall never speak of this matter again," she said tremulously. She held out her hand. "Good-bye ... father. I shall see you again--yes. But this is the real good-bye." He took her hand. "Good-bye," he said. They gazed steadily into each other's eyes. "Good-bye," she repeated in a low voice, and, head down, walked slowly from the room. * * * * * He sat long before the fire while upon him his new situation pressed more heavily, more sharply. It was the bitterest hour of his life. Upon him bore the pain of impending public disgrace, the pain of the loss of his daughter--and cruellest of all, the pain of being judged by the one person of his heart, disowned by her. And this last bitterness was given a deep-cutting, ironic edge as he realised afresh that, to protect himself, he must disown her--that, cast off by her, he must make it appear to the world that he had cast her off.