--the traits of strength, of
tenacity, of inevitable purpose. And Josephine saw and dreaded.

"But," Burroughs went on, "I have it on the best authority that it is
true."

Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled. "Then
you wish to break off the engagement?" he said in the gentlest,
smoothest tone.

Burroughs brought his fist down on the table--and Norman recognized the
gesture of the bluffer. "I wish you to break off with that woman!" he
cried. "I insist upon it--upon positive assurances from you."

"Fred!" pleaded Josephine. "Don't listen to him. Remember, I have said
nothing."

He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her. It now
seemed to him that he had found it. "Why should you?" he said genially
but with subtle irony, "since you are getting your father to speak for
you."

There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her into
disorder. She had been afraid of the consequences of her father's
interfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time she
had longed to have some one put a check upon him. Norman's suave remark
made her feel that he could see into her inmost soul--could see the
anger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, the
love-saturated hate seething and warring there.

Burroughs was saying: "If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, I
should deal very differently with this matter."

"Why should that deter you?" said Norman--and Josephine gave a piteous
gasp. "If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred."

Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the young
man in puzzled amazement. "I see you think you have us in your power,"
he said at last. "But you are mistaken."

"On the contrary," rejoined the young man, "I see you believe you have
me in your power. And in a sense you are _not_ mistaken."

"Father, he is right," cried Josephine agitatedly. "I shouldn't love and
respect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring."

"Hectoring!" exclaimed Burroughs. "Josephine, leave the room. I cannot
discuss this matter properly before you."

"I hope you will not leave, Josephine," said Norman. "There is nothing
to be said that you cannot and ought not to hear."

"I'm not an infant, father," said Josephine. "Besides, it is as Fred
says. He has done nothing--improper."

"Then why does he not say so?" demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance to
recede from his former too a