bad stock, dissipated and arrogant and spendthrift and shiftless and
weak--oh, and a lot more! He's not stingy with his adjectives, bless
you! Picture to yourself Madge being dissipated and arrogant and--have
you seen Madge?" he interrupted himself.

The Bishop shook his head. "Eleanor made an attempt on my life with a
string across the path, to-day. We were friends over that."

"She's a winning little rat," said Dick, smiling absent-mindedly, "but
nothing to Madge. You'll understand when you see Madge how I couldn't
give her up. And it isn't so much that--my feeling for her--though
that's enough in all conscience, but picture to yourself, if you please,
a man going to a girl and saying: 'I'm obliged to give you up, because
my father threatens to disinherit me and kick me out of the business. He
objects because your father's a poor lot.' That's a nice line of conduct
to map out for your only son. Yet that's practically what my father
wishes me to do. But he's brought me up a gentleman, by George," said
Dick straightening himself, "and it's too late to ask me to be a beastly
cad. Besides that," and voice and figure drooped to despondency again,
"I just can't give her up."

The Bishop's keen eyes were on the troubled face, and in their depths
lurked a kindly shade of amusement. He could see stubborn old Dick
Fielding in stubborn young Dick Fielding so plainly. Dick the elder had
been his friend for forty years. But he said nothing. It was better to
let the boy talk himself out a bit. In a moment Dick began again.

"Can't see why the governor's so keen against Colonel Preston, anyway.
He's lost his money and made a mess of his life, and I rather fancy he
drinks too much. But he's the sort of man you can't help being proud
of--bad clothes and vices and all--handsome and charming and
thorough-bred--and father must know it. His children love him--he can't
be such a brute as the governor says. Anyway, I don't want to marry the
Colonel--what's the use of rowing about the Colonel?" inquired Dick,
desperately.

The Bishop asked a question now: "How many children are there?"

"Only Madge and Eleanor. They're here with their cousins, the Vails,
summers. Two or three died between those two, I believe. Lucky, perhaps,
for the family has been awfully hard up. Lived on in their big old
place, in Maryland, with no money at all. I've an idea Madge's mother
wasn't so sorry to die--had a hard life of it with the fascinating
Colonel."