“That isn’t a very nice way for a girl to talk--is it now, my dear?” said Richmond, laughing with some constraint. “Why not?” said she. “It’s the man’s place to do the courting and the proposing. And if the man doesn’t want you I’m sure you’ve got too much modesty and pride to----” “I don’t know whether I have or not,” interrupted Beatrice. “I’ve got a lot of you in me. I can’t imagine anything I wouldn’t do to get him if I thought it would help. And I haven’t thought of much else but of different schemes to bring him round. I’m like you are when you see a railroad you want.” “But there’s nothing you can do, Beatrice,” remonstrated her father. “No--it seems not,” she assented despondently. “Oh, how it enrages me to be a woman! When a man sees a girl he recognizes as the very best for him, one he can’t and won’t do without, he goes after her--straight out--and everybody applauds. It ought to be so with a girl.” “God forbid!” cried Richmond, laughing. “Oh, the men wouldn’t be bothered as much as you seem to think. Not many of them are tremendously worth while. The women feel about most of them like----” “Like they do about mashed potatoes in Indiana--don’t care whether they’re eating ’em or not?” “Just so,” laughed she. Once more he was at the hall door. He turned for a last look and smile. “I’ll be back in an hour, and out home we’ll plan something to take your mind off this unappreciative man.” Beatrice looked disappointed. “I thought you were going to say plan something to bring him round. That’s what we must do.” This was the fatal one prod too many at the leashed temper of Richmond. “Don’t irritate me, Beatrice,” he said sharply--a plea verging on a rebuke. “Please try to be a little tactful with me.” “I see you haven’t changed at all,” cried she, tears in her eyes again--hot tears of a very different kind from those before. “I thought you wanted to go home,” cried he, struggling with his temper. “I do--if you are willing to grant me the dearest right a woman has--the right to select her own husband.” She came closer to him, clasped her hands and laid them against his shoulder. And into his eyes gazed hers, innocent, anxious. “Oh, father, won’t you be sensible--reasonable? I’ve got to live with him--not you.” “I’d do almost anything to please you, my dear. If he were in your class----” “But that’s just why I want him,” cried she. “Do you think a man like that could grow up in my class?” “There are lots of clever painters about--lots of ’em.” “I don’t care anything about his painting,” exclaimed she impatiently. “I don’t know anything about it. I’m speaking of him as a man. A woman doesn’t marry a talent--or a family--or a fortune. She wants a _man_. Of course, if she can’t get a man, why, one of the other things is better than nothing. But _I_ can get a _man_, father--if you’ll help me!” “Peter’s almost as tall--and quite as handsome--and much more like your sort of looking man.”