as also confused.
There was the note of truth in what she said, but he felt that she
said it with too much excitement, with too great facility. He had the
justified masculine distrust of feminine fluency as hysterical.
Nothing so presented could carry full conviction. And he felt
physically bruised and battered, as if he had been beaten with actual
rods instead of stinging words; but he was not yet defeated.

{21}

"Mrs. Lannithorne, what do you wish me to understand from all this? Do
you forbid Ruth and me to marry--is that it?"

She looked at him dubiously. She felt so fiercely the things she had
been saying that she could not feel them continuously. She, too, was
exhausted.

Oliver Pickersgill had a fine head, candid eyes, a firm chin, strong
capable hands. He was young, and the young know nothing, but it might
be that there was the making of a man in him. If Ruth must marry,
perhaps him as well as another. But she did not trust her own
judgment, even of such hands, such eyes, and such a chin. Oh, if the
girls would only believe her, if they would only be content to trust
the wisdom she had distilled from the bitterness of life! But the
young know {22} nothing, and believe only the lying voices in their
own hearts!

"I wish you would see Ruth's father," she said suddenly. "I am
prejudiced. I ought not to have to deal with these questions. I tell
you, I pray Heaven none of them may marry--ever; but, just the same,
they will! Go ask Peter Lannithorne if he thinks his daughter Ruth has
a fighting chance for happiness as your wife. Let him settle it. I
have told you what I think. I am done."

"I shall be very glad to talk with Ruth's father about the matter,"
said Oliver with a certain emphasis on _father_. "Perhaps he and I
shall be able to understand each other better. Good morning, Mrs.
Lannithorne!"

{23}

III

Oliver Pickersgill Senior turned his swivel-chair about, bit hard on
the end of his cigar, and stared at his only son.

"What's that?" he said abruptly, "Say that again."

Oliver Junior winced, not so much at the words as at his father's
face.

"I want to marry Ruth Lannithorne," he repeated steadily.

There was a silence. The elder Pickersgill looked at his son long and
hard from under lowered brows. Oliver had never seen his father look
at him like that before: as if he were a rank outsider, some detached
person whose doings were to be scrutinized coldly an