“I want to marry Roger Wade,” replied Beatrice, too strongly under the delusion to read plain signs aright. “You see why. You’ve said yourself that he was one of the realest men you had seen. You can’t wonder at my caring for him. All the others seem so--so puny--beside him. I’d be ashamed to show any of them as my husband. What shall I do, father? How can I get him?” If one finds oneself pointing south when he ought to be pointing north there are two ways to act. One may veer gently and gradually, hoping that the shift will pass unobserved; or one may make the change with speed swifter than thought or sight, and may point north so stiffly that it will seem impossible that one ever was pointing, or ever could point, in any other direction. When Richmond found it necessary to flop he did not sidle--he flopped. He proceeded to flop now--with a jerk and a bang. “What are you talking about?” he said savagely. “You’re going to marry Peter.” The instant prompting of instinct to Beatrice was that her father would not help, would not consent, would not tolerate. But straightway came the memory of his gallant democratic speechifyings still echoing in her ears. “You know I couldn’t marry a Peter after I had seen Roger,” she said gayly. “All the time you were talking--as we walked down from his studio--I knew what you really had in mind. You were giving it to me for thinking of Peter when I might have the other man. You thought I was hopelessly frivolous and snobbish like the rest of the family. But I’m like you, father. I don’t want to be married to a tailor’s dummy. I want a _man_!” She nodded brightly at his thunderous face. “And we’ll get him--you and I!” Richmond did not relent, not a whit. She had taken him so completely by surprise, had put him in such an absurdly false position that temper got the better of prudence. He did not view the situation calmly and proceed along lines of wisdom--using common-sense argument, appeal to material instincts and that mightiest of weapons, gentle ridicule. He hurled at her through his eyes the hot wrath of his tyrant will. “You are going to marry Peter, I tell you. I’m astounded at you. I’m disgusted with you. I’d have thought you could see straight through a cheap, lazy fortune hunter. Vanity--always vanity! He makes a few flattering speeches, and you believe he is in love with you. And you begin to make a god out of him. I’m glad you spoke to me about this. If the Vanderkiefs had any idea of it they’d drop you double-quick.” Beatrice knew her father--knew when he was in earnest. Never before had she seen or felt a deeper earnestness than this of his now. She sat dazed, staring at the restless ears of the thoroughbreds before her. “No good ever comes of marrying out of your own class,” continued he. “I thought you had more pride. I know you have. You were joking. Let’s hear no more about it.” “He is not a fortune hunter,” said Beatrice in a numb way.