“But,” pursued Beatrice’s father, “what would you do--if you fell in love?” And, ignoring the painter’s confusion in the bursting of this bomb, he went on with an air of philosophic impartiality: “Love laughs at reason--at ambition--at calculation of every kind. Yes--I--about the last man in the world to be suspected of sentimentality--I say that love is supreme master.” Roger, with an air of youthful positiveness--cocksureness--made a gesture of strong dissent. Richmond smiled, went on: “Yes, young man--_yes_! When love commands we all obey--you--I--_all_--we obey. We may squirm--struggle--but we surrender. What would you do if you fell in love?” Roger leaned forward in his chair, looked firmly into the keen, kindly eyes of Beatrice’s father. “I should fly,” said he slowly. The two men regarded each other steadily, each reading the other’s mind. And again beneath the young and romantic handsomeness Richmond saw the man with whom his daughter was not yet acquainted--the man with the great character gracefully concealed behind the romantic-looking painter--a character in the making as yet, but having the imposing outlines that enable one to imagine something of the final form. At last Richmond said: “Yes--I believe--you--_could_--fly--and _would_.” Roger flushed and his gaze sank. “I should feel that I was false to all that means myself to me if I did not,” said he. “No matter how I loved her I would fly.” “And she?” inquired Richmond. “What about her?” Roger smiled faintly--a sardonic smile. “Women forget their caprices easily.” “Would _you_ forget easily?” said the older man gently--he looked very old and very gentle and kind. The handsome face of the young painter grew grave. “I’m afraid not,” said he. “But if _I_ could forget a--a reality, certainly she could forget a fancy.” No one--except perhaps his wife, with her memories of Richmond’s ardent and generous youth when he had wooed and won her despite her father’s misgivings about his poverty and her own misgivings about his size--but certainly no one else would have recognized the face of Daniel Richmond as he replied: “Not if she had, by some divine instinct, understood and appreciated such a rare man as you.” Roger’s impatient gesture was almost angry. “I am not a man. I am a painter.” “And if she did not forget?” persisted Richmond in the same slow, insistent way, like conscience itself. “If it was not a whim?” Roger stood up. “I don’t grant your supposition,” said he. “But, granting it, then at least I’d not have made a mess of her life and of my own. For if I were false to my art it would revenge itself by tormenting me. And the wife of a tormented man is not happy.”