She tried to make her departure unobtrusive. But her father would not have it so. Coming toward the house with the worst of his rage about steamed away he caught sight of her and her maid waiting while several trunks and packages were being loaded on the roof of a touring car. At the sight he went insane again. He rushed wildly toward them and shouted out, heedless of the servants: “Take that car back to the garage, Léry! Valentine, go into the house--report to Mrs. Richmond. And you”--he glared crazily at his daughter--“if you leave here you walk!--and you never come back!” Beatrice took the hand bag from her maid. “Good-by, Valentine,” said she. There was a wonderful, quiet dignity in her bearing--a delicate correctness of attitude, neither forward nor shrinking--evident sensibility to the situation, yet no desire to aggravate it by show of superior breeding or by defiance. It was a situation savagely testing character. Beatrice responded to the test in a way that augured well for her being able to look out for herself in any circumstances. She smiled pleasantly, yet with restraint, to the agitated servants and started down the road. Valentine hesitated, then set out in her wake. “Come back here!” shouted Richmond. “You are in my employ, not my daughter’s.” Beatrice, guessing what was occurring, paused and turned. “Do as my father says,” she said. “I shall not be able to keep you.” “I, too, belong to myself, mademoiselle,” replied the girl with a quiet dignity equal to that of her mistress. “I cannot stay here. I’ll go with you if I may. But--I’ll not stay here.” Richmond, realizing that his rage of the impotent had once more whirled him into an impossible situation, disappeared in the house. Before Beatrice and Valentine reached the lodge the auto overtook them. The chauffeur, Léry, swung the car close in to the footpath beside the road, jumped from his seat, opened the door. “Did my father send you?” asked she. “Yes, mademoiselle.” When the two women were seated--Beatrice insisted on Valentine’s sitting by her--Beatrice said: “I don’t believe Léry.” Valentine gave a queer, little smile. “But,” continued Beatrice, “father will never make any inquiries.” “Léry understands,” said Valentine. “Understands--what?” “That you will win. Your father adores you.” “You don’t know,” said Beatrice, shaking her head in a decided negative. “And I can’t tell you.” XV WADE’S LOST FORTUNE