Roger, too full of pity for resentment, regarded the old man with friendly eyes. “Mr. Richmond,” said he, “I repeat I do not wish to marry anyone. I have made up my mind, with all the strength of what little good sense I may have, never to marry. I do not believe in marriage--for myself--for people who are doing the sort of thing I’m trying to do. You might as well accuse a Catholic priest of intending to marry.” “Fudge!” snorted Richmond. Roger shrugged his shoulders. “This interview was not of my seeking. I wish it to come to an end.” “You refuse to tell her you will not marry her?” “I refuse to make an impertinent ass of myself. If you wish your daughter back, sir, go and apologize for having outraged her finest feelings and ask her to come home unconditionally. I could not say to her what you request--for obvious reasons of good taste. If you had a sense of humor you’d not ask it. But I don’t hesitate to give you my word that you need not have an instant’s uneasiness lest your daughter and I marry.” “On your honor?” “On my honor.” Richmond gazed at him with eyes that seemed to be searching every corner of his soul. “I believe you,” said he at last. “And I am content.” He had abruptly changed from suspicion and sneer and hardly veiled insult to his most winning friendliness and geniality. It was amazing how attractive his wizened and usually almost wicked face became. “It’s been my experience,” he went on to explain, “that human beings are at bottom exactly alike--in motives, in the things that appeal to them. Once in a while there is an exception. You happen to be one, Mr. Wade. I think you’ll forgive me for having applied my principle to you. Where exceptions are rare it’s most unwise for a practical man to consider them as a possibility.” Roger smiled amiably enough. “No matter,” said he. “I hope you’ll make it up with your daughter.” Richmond’s face clouded, and once more that look of anguish showed deep in his eyes. “It’ll just about kill me if I don’t,” said he. “Go to her--like a father who loves,” said Roger gently. And once more the impulse came, too strong to resist, and he dropped the cover from the painting. But this time he did not look at the picture--at Beatrice Richmond as incarnation of a spring morning; he fixed his gaze upon her father. And the expression of that sad, passion-scarred face made him glad he had yielded to the impulse. “I must have it!” said Richmond. “Name your own price.” “It is not for sale.” “I tell you I must have it.” “No--you can have her. I shall keep this.” Roger was gazing absently at his creation. Richmond, struck by some subtle accent in his words, glanced quickly at him. “I’ll take it with me--back to Paris,” said Roger, talking aloud to himself. “When do you go?” asked Richmond abruptly. “Next week.” “For the summer?” “For good,” said Roger, covering the picture. “I wish you every success,” cried Richmond heartily. “You are an honest, sincere man.”