He consoled himself by feeling that she would before many years appreciate what he had done for her--this, when she should have installed herself in the dazzling position her ability would make out of the wealth he could give her and the prestige she would get through Peter’s ancient lineage. Being a man of imagination--as every man who achieves in whatever direction must be--Richmond had a strong vein of sentiment, of romance. He could not but sympathize with his daughter’s heart trouble, now that her acquiescence in his plans permitted him to be fair-minded--in secret. But romance was a fleeting thing, while the things he had been planning for her were not spring-time ephemerals, but the substantialities that make a human being comfortable and often happy the whole life through from youth to old age. When Peter entered, Mrs. Richmond had finished her note and was just departing. “Will you drive with me in about an hour?” asked she, passing him in the door. “Sorry, but I’ve got----” “Oh, if Beatrice needs you,” laughed she, going on and leaving the two men alone. Peter interrupted Richmond’s reverie with a bomb. “Beatrice has broken the engagement,” said he nervously. “She refuses to marry me.” The small, wiry figure in the window swung round with a jerk. Gone were the sentimental reflections inspired by the lovely prospect from that window, his daughter the crown and climax of the loveliness. “Why?” he shot at the young man. Peter shrank only a trifle. He was strong in his strong case. “Because she does not care for me and cares for some one else.” “That trash again! You refused to release her?” “Yes, sir,” said Peter, proud of his virtue. “Well?” “She released herself.” Richmond wheeled round, noted his daughter seated in the same place, twirling her pale-blue sunshade and looking idly about. He wheeled back, started for the door. “Pardon me, sir,” said Peter, “but I am taking the train for town. This puts me in an embarrassing--painful----” “Wait here,” ordered Richmond, and disappeared. Peter, discreetly standing well back in the room, watched the father speeding toward the daughter and awaited in nervous suspense the crash of the collision. He marveled that she could sit placidly when she knew exactly what was coming. “She _sure_ is the real thing,” he muttered. “Where can you beat it? A sport--that’s what I call her--a good sport.” When Richmond arrived within comfortable speaking distance of the placid girl with the sweet smile of welcome he began. “How did Vanderkief get this false impression?” said he in a flexible tone, readily convertible either to geniality or to wrathful imperiousness. “Has he told you I am willing to marry him?” inquired she. Richmond beamed. “I thought the numskull didn’t know what he was talking about!” he exclaimed. “He says you won’t marry him.” “Oh,” said Beatrice with her merriest smile. “I thought you said he had a false impression.”