“But he has done nothing!” cried she. “I’ve told you he refused me--again and again. He has done everything to discourage me. He has wounded my pride. He has trampled on my vanity. He has told me plainly that in no circumstances would he burden himself with me.” “Then why do you persist?” said her father shrewdly. She did not answer. Her head drooped. Richmond laughed. “You see, your story doesn’t hold together. This is Rhoda and Broadstairs over again. They conspired together to bleed me out of more than he had asked in the first place. I let them do it. But I knew what they were about. This is a different case.” White and shaking, he waved outstretched arms at her. “You and your vagabond will never get a cent out of me, living or dead. And he knows it. I told him.” “You saw him?” said Beatrice eagerly. “What did he say?” Richmond grew fiery red at the recollection of that interview, thus brought vividly back to him. “No matter,” said he roughly. “You’ll find that he wants nothing more to do with you. And when I get through with him he’ll be glad to hide himself in some dark, cheap corner of Paris. He’ll have to beg his passage money.” “Father, I told you the truth,” said the girl with passionate earnestness. “He has never sought me. I have no hope of marrying him. I persisted--persist--because”--she drew her figure up proudly--“I love him!” “A lot of pride _you’ve_ got,” sneered her father. “Yes, I have,” replied she. “I love him so much that I’d not be ashamed for the whole world to know it. I’m not one of those milk-and-water, cowardly women who have to wait till they’re loved before they begin to give what they call love. I love him because he is the best all-round man I ever saw--because he is big and broad and simple--because he’s honest and sincere--because he--because I _love_ him!” Richmond was silenced. She looked fine as she said this--the sort of woman an intelligent, appreciative man is mighty proud to have as a daughter. He was moved so powerfully that he could not altogether conceal it. But that was an impulse from a part of his nature deeply sepulchered and almost dead--quite dead so far as influence upon action or practical life was concerned. “You’re stark mad, Beatrice!” he cried. “This has got to be cured at once. Come home with me!” “Father,” she pleaded, “you never denied me anything in my life. And this I want more than all----” “I thought you said you had no hope,” cried her father, encouraged to see weakness in the feminine pathos of her tones. “Now, drop this nonsense! Come with me and marry Vanderkief or I’ll beggar that artist and drive him out in disgrace. Take your choice. And be quick about it. I’ll not make this offer again, and I’ll not stop the wheels once I set them in motion. In two days I can have him made penniless.” Beatrice looked at her father; her father looked at her. She laughed--a quiet, cold laugh. “You win,” said she. “I’ll go.”