Richmond sat staring at the floor of the veranda. The wrinkles and seams and hollows in his face seemed to be deepening. After a few minutes of silence, disturbed by the irritating noisiness of a flock of sparrows, he said: “She refuses to come home. I offered to concede--everything. I’d be glad to let her have her way. But, as you say, it’s impossible. She’ll not come home. She blames me. I thought I was altogether to blame. I see I’m not. But--she blames me, and always will. And she’ll not make it up with me.” A long pause, then there came from him in a mere ghost of his normal voice: “And--it is killing me.” Roger sat motionless, gazing at the bed of sweet old-fashioned flowers before the veranda. Richmond broke the long stretch of evening stillness: “Would you--would it be asking too much of you-- If you saw her you might persuade her to make it up with me.” Roger did not move--did not reply. He had retreated deep within himself. “I know it isn’t fair to you--or to her--to ask it,” went on her father’s sad, monotonous voice, heavy with heartache. “I know that seeing her again would only make it harder for you to do what you’ve got to do--for I understand about those musts of ambition that make men like us relentless. And I know that seeing you again--and seeing even more clearly the man you are--would make it--impossible, perhaps, for her to forget. But--” Richmond paused long before adding--“I am an old man and--I have the selfishness of those who have not long to live.” Roger still neither moved nor spoke. Richmond observed him for a while, rose with a painful effort. “Good-by,” he said, extending his hand. Roger stood, took his hand. “I’d do it if I could--if I were strong enough,” he said. “It’s humiliating, but I have to confess I am not.” “Think it over, Wade. Do the best you can for me.” And Richmond, his feet almost shuffling, went down the steps and down the walk and out through the gate. He climbed heavily into his runabout--was gone. Roger leaned against the pillar, staring into vacancy, until the old woman had twice called him to supper. XX BEATRICE LOSES Beatrice and Miss Clermont were finishing breakfast the following morning when Richmond came. As he entered the small sitting room with its bed folded away into a lounge he made no effort to conceal his feelings. In response to Beatrice’s look of defiance he sent to her from his haggard face a glance of humble appeal--the look of the beaten and impotent tyrant--for the pride of the tyrant is not in himself, but in his power, and vanishes with it. “I’d like to see you alone,” said he, ignoring Valentine as a servant. “My partner, Miss Clermont,” said Beatrice, in the tone of making an introduction. Richmond’s natural quickness did not fail him. He instantly repaired his mistake. “Miss Clermont,” said he, bowing politely. Then, “Pardon my abruptness. I am much upset in mind.”