"No; there's no reason for that," he managed to say.

"Well then?" she demanded, with an air of triumph. "It's just as I said.
You owe it to every one, you owe it to me, you owe it to yourself above
all, to give up. It might have been better if you'd done it long ago."

"I couldn't," he declared, in a tone that sounded to his own ears as a
cry. "I tried to, ... but things were so involved ... almost from the
first...."

"Well, as long as they're not involved now there's no reason why it
shouldn't be better late than never."

"But they _are_ involved now," he said, with an intensity so poignant
that he was surprised she didn't notice it.

"Then straighten them out. Isn't that what we've been saying all along,
Cousin Rodney and I? Take a partner; take two partners. Cousin Rodney
says you should have done it when Mr. Maxwell died, or before--"

"I couldn't.... Things weren't shipshape enough ... not even then."

"I'm sure it could be managed," she asserted, confidently; "and if you
don't do it now, papa, when I'm being married and going away for good,
you'll never do it at all. That's my fear. I don't want to live over
there without you, papa; and I'm afraid that's what you're going to let
me in for." She moved from the banister, and continued her way upward,
speaking over her shoulder as she ascended. "In the mean time, you
really _must_ go to bed. You look tired and rather pale--just as I do
after a dull party. Good night; and _don't_ stay up."