im of any kind--"

"That is natural, dear, but still I don't understand."

Rising from the couch, Patty moved to a chair in front of Corinna, and
sinking into it, began nervously plaiting and unplaiting a fold of her
white dress. "I can do anything with Julius Gershom if I am nice to
him," she murmured. "If he stands by Father most of the others will
also."

With a gasp Corinna sat up very straight and tried to see Patty's eyes
in the obscurity. What sordid horror was the child facing now? What
unspeakable degradation? "You can't think of marrying Gershom, Patty!"
she exclaimed, with a gesture of loathing. "You must be out of your mind
even to dream of it!"

"I can make him do anything I want if I will promise to marry him," she
answered in a steady voice, though a shiver of aversion passed over her.

Corinna drew her breath sharply, restraining at the same time an impulse
to laugh. Oh, the mock heroics of youth! Of youth with its fantastic
heroism and its dauntless inexperience! "If you only knew," she breathed
indignantly, "if you only knew what marriage means!"

Patty turned and gave her a long look. "I could do more than that for
Father," she answered.

So this was the other side of Gideon Vetch--of that man of ignoble
circumstances and infinite magnanimity! How could any one understand
him? How, above all, could any one judge him? How could one fathom his
power for good or for evil? She beheld him suddenly as a man who was
inspired by an exalted illusion--the illusion of human perfectibility.
In the changing world about her, the breaking up and the renewing, the
dissolution and readjustment of ideals; in the modern conflict between
the spirit that accepts and the spirit that rejects; in this age of
destiny--was not an unconquerable optimism, an invincible belief in
life, the one secure hope for the future? It is the human touch that
creates hope, she thought; and the power of Gideon Vetch was revealed to
her as simply the human touch magnified into a force.

She became aware after a minute that Patty was speaking. "I can never
tell you--I can never tell any one what he used to be to me when I was a
little girl, and he was very poor. Sometimes--for a long time--I
couldn't have a nurse, and he would dress and undress me, and leave me
with the neighbours when he went away to work. I can see him now heating
milk for me over an old oil lamp. Once when I was ill he sat up night
after night with me. Oh, I don't m