As physical violence was out of the question, Richmond did not know what to do--how to extricate himself from the absurd position into which his wrath had hurried him. He glowered at the big artist. The sense of impotence set his rage to steaming. “And I must tell you that if you had not had the cleverness to hold off--if you had lured that foolish child into marriage--you’d never have got a cent--not a cent! I’d cast off a child of mine who so disgraced her family. I’d forget she existed. But now that she realizes how she was trapped--what a slick citizen you are--she’s ashamed of herself--ashamed of herself. There ought to be a law that could reach fellows like you.” While he was talking Roger was pushing his easel into the huge closet. He now closed and locked it, threw his coat over his arm and strode calmly past Richmond and out at the door. Not a word, not a glance, not a sign. Richmond followed him slowly. Roger marched at a long, swinging gait down the hill toward the east and disappeared into the woods. Richmond stared after him. When the undergrowth hid him from view Richmond took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. In a long life dotted with many an unusual scene between him and sundry of his fellow-men he had never experienced the like of this. “The scoundrel!” he said, a look of reluctant respect in his wrathful eyes. “The best game I ever ran up against.” He must hurry his girl out of the country--and not give her an unwatched moment until the steamer was clear of the dock. * * * * * Meanwhile, Beatrice had gone to her mother. Mrs. Richmond was taking advantage of a lull in the entertaining to give herself a thorough physical overhauling. The lower part of the west wing was fitted up as a complete gymnasium, with a swimming pool underneath. She had played basket ball with her secretary and companion, Miss Cleets, had fenced ten minutes, had swum twenty, and was now lying on a lounge in her boudoir, preparing to go off into a delicious sleep. In came Beatrice. “Well, mamma,” said she, “the fat’s in the fire.” Mrs. Richmond opened her drowsy eyes. “You’ve told your father?” Beatrice nodded. “And he promptly blew up.” “I was sure he would.” Beatrice’s expression--strange, satirical, sad, bitterly sad--could not but have impressed her mother had she not been more than half asleep. “You knew him better than I did,” said the girl. “Still--no matter.” “We’ll talk about it after I’ve had my nap.” “Oh, there’s nothing to talk about.” “That’s true,” said her mother comfortably, as she slid luxuriously down the descent into unconsciousness--or is it an ascent? “You know there’s nothing to do but to obey your father. And he’s right. You’ll be better satisfied with Peter.” And Mrs. Richmond was asleep.