as shown the highest kind of honesty--has been truthful where most
men would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far." Not
without the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as his
son-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of his
pre-eminent fitness were so rare.

There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had he
returned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within her
there was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matched
vanities--the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of what
the world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at that
time and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept his
eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion of
any kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, looked
arrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears--tears of self-pity. "Send
him away, father," she said. "He has tried to degrade _me_! I am done with
him." And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his
chair to detain her.

He turned angrily on Norman. "A hell of a mess you've made!" he cried.

"A hell of a mess," replied the young man.

"Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part."

"It's settled," said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace.
"Good night."

"Hold on!" cried Burroughs. "Before you go, you must see Josie alone and
talk with her."

"It would be useless," said Norman. "You know her."

Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man's
shoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young people
your happiness for life. This is no time for jealousy and false pride.
Wait a moment."

"Very well," said Norman. "But it is useless." He understood Josephine
now--he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that her
vanity-founded love had vanished.

Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Norman
waited several minutes--long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then he
went into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No one
appeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street.

In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of the
invitations--and from half a column to several columns of comment, much
of it extremely unflattering to him.

XIII

When a "high life" engagement such as that of Norman and Miss B