“Poor little girl,” he said aloud, rising to his feet. “How wretched she must be at this moment.” He sat down at his writing-table. “Sweet little wife,” he began, “I would that you were with me now.” And, for the hour, he was quite sincere. CHAPTER VI “I have something serious to say to you, my daughter.” The speaker was Israel Hart. The place, his study, a commodious apartment overlooking the front drive, of which the most striking features were a great library table and a solid iron safe. The time was a mid-autumn Sunday afternoon. A cheerful fire showed up the warmth of a Turkey carpet, and cast flickering gleams upon the varnished surfaces of the three oil pictures on the walls. The money-lender was sitting at the table, with some correspondence in front of him, when he greeted Minna, who had come in obedience to a summons, with this announcement. He was a man of over sixty, stout and loose-featured, with grizzling hair and beard. His race was clearly written on his countenance, which bore, too, that stamp of his calling which can best be suggested negatively as an absence of spirituality. The absorbing pursuit of money hardens the eyes and leaves the lower part of the face undetermined. One meets a thousand such, morning and evening, in suburban trains. Yet the face of Israel Hart was not without marks of integrity and even of a certain benevolence. Minna crossed the room slowly to the fireplace and rested one small shoe on the fender. “Yes, papa?” “I have here a formal letter from my good friend, Simeon Goldberg, which I wish you to read.” “About marrying me?” “Yes. It deals exclusively with the subject.” “What is the use of my reading the letter?” she said, without shifting her attitude, and ignoring the letter which her father had wheeled round in his chair in order to offer her. “I can guess what’s in it. Oh, dear! Why does he worry?” “I desire you to read it, Minna,” said her father. She moved, took it from him, read it nonchalantly, with a contemptuous smile, and threw it, with a woman’s charming awkwardness in throwing, upon the table. “I might be shares in a new company he was asking you for. Do I look like a scrip or a bond? I won’t have him, of course, but when you write to him, tell him that that’s not the way to win a woman with blood in her veins.” “You’re a foolish girl, Minna. If you have any kind of regard for my wishes you will give this matter further consideration. Where will you, Minna Hart, find a better match?” “Oh, in a penny box!” she cried, flippantly. “At least it would have some latent fire at the end of it!” “You will regret it,” said her father. “It will be something to do, then. Tell him I’ll try. It may soothe his vanity.” “Come here, my daughter,” said the old man. She moved obediently to his side and put her hand in his that was held open.