He turned on her a suddenly direct, confessing look.

"Aimée, I have _arranged_ this matter."

He added heavily, "To-night. That is what I came to tell you."

In the silence that settled upon them he finally ceased his effort
to ignore her shocked dismay. He abandoned his airy pretense that
the affair could possibly evoke her enthusiasm. He sucked at his
cigarette like a rather sullen little boy.

"I have always indulged you, Aimée," he said at last, without
looking round at her. "I hope you are not going to make me
infernally sorry."

"I think you are m-making me inf-fernally sorry," said an unsteady
little voice.

He looked about. His daughter was sitting very still upon the
gilded sofa beneath the banner of Mahomet; as he regarded her two
great tears formed in her dark eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks.

With a sound of impatience he jumped to his feet and began to pace
up and down the room.

This, he pointed out heatedly, to her, was what a man got who
indulged his daughter. This is what came of French and English
governesses and modern ideas.... After all he had done--more than
any other father! To sit and weep! Weep--at such a marriage! What
did she expect of life? Was she not as other women? Did she never