“I tell you he is!” cried Richmond violently. “The impudent hound! No wonder he tried to work off that picture of his as a gift!” Richmond laughed with a sneer. “The impudent puppy!” “He is a great artist,” said Beatrice. “D’Artois says so.” “What of that? What’s an artist? What standing has he got? But don’t talk about it. I’ll not be able to contain myself.” He faced her sharply. “Look at me!” The girl turned her eyes slowly, with her wounded soul’s suffering revealed in them. But Richmond did not see people ever; he saw only his own purposes. “How far has this gone?” She eyed him steadily long enough for him to get the sense of an immovable obstacle squarely across the path of his indomitable will. “It has gone so far that I’ll not marry anyone else,” she said, neither hot nor cold. “I couldn’t.” “Don’t let me hear that kind of talk!” shouted Richmond, in his rage forgetting the groom. “You are going to marry a man who can make you happy--a man in your own station--a man who has family and standing.” “But you said Roger was of the only true aristocracy,” pleaded Beatrice. “You said----” “And a fool I was, to talk to a silly, little idiot of an ignorant girl with no experience of life, with no ability to understand what I was talking about. I wasn’t discussing a husband for you. I wasn’t discussing the world as it is. I wasn’t discussing people of our station. I wasn’t discussing fortune-hunting artists. It shows how little sense you’ve got, that you could twist what I said into an appeal to you to marry an impudent fortune hunter!” In his fury at her for being thus stupid he gave the off thoroughbred a sharp cut with the whip. The horse, unused to such loutish disrespect to his royal blood, leaped forward, started to run. For five minutes Richmond had to fix his undivided attention upon the horses; they gave him a bad scare before consenting to submit. The girl, unconscious of what was going on, sat in the blinding storm of her own unhappiness. “You and Peter are engaged?” was her father’s resuming remark. “In a fashion.” “What does that mean?” “Not much of anything,” replied his daughter indifferently. Richmond’s strong, sallow teeth looked as if they were crowded because they were pushing eagerly to the fore in competition to be first in sinking into the prey. Said he: “I want the date of the wedding fixed at once.” Silence. “Did you hear?” “Yes.” “Why don’t you answer?” “You didn’t ask a question. You issued an order.” “And you will obey it.” Silence. “Did you hear?” “Yes.” “I won’t tolerate sullenness. I am your father. I know life--the world--what is best for my family--for you. I don’t often interfere. When I do, I expect obedience.” “It seems to me you are blustering a good deal, for one who is sure of obedience,” said Beatrice, in a way that brought out all her latent resemblance to the incarnation of passionate will and willful passion who begot her.