“By the way, Kate,” he remarked, casually, when coffee had been served and he had motioned the butlers out of the room, “by the way, I’ve been rather badly disappointed, today.  Did you know that?”

“No, father,” she answered.  She never called him “daddy,” now.  “No, I’m sorry to hear it.  What’s gone wrong?”

He looked at her a moment before replying, as though to gauge her mind and the effect his announcement might have.  Very charming she looked, that evening, in a crepe de Chine gown with three-quarter lace sleeves and an Oriental girdle—­a wonderful Nile-green creation, very simple (she had told herself) yet of staggering cost.  A single white rose graced her hair.  The low-cut neck of the gown revealed a full, strong bosom.  Around her throat she wore a fine gold chain, with a French 20-franc piece and her Vassar Phi Beta Kappa key attached—­the only pendants she cared for.  The gold coin spoke to her of the land of her far ancestry, a land oft visited by her and greatly loved; the gold key reminded her of college, and high rank taken in studies there.

Old Flint noted some of these details as he sat looking at her across the white and gleaming table, where silver and gold plate, cut glass and flowers and fine Sevres china all combined to make a picture of splendor such as the average workingman or his wife has never even dreamed of or imagined; a picture the merest commonplace, however, to Flint and Catherine.

“A devilish fine-looking girl!” thought he, eyeing his daughter with approval.  “She’d grace any board in the world, whether billionaire’s or prince’s!  Waldron, old man, you’ll never be able to thank me sufficiently for what I’m going to do for you tonight—­never, that is, unless you help me make the Air Trust the staggering success I think you can, and give me the boost I need to land the whole damned world as my own private property!”

He chuckled dryly to himself, then drew the paper from his pocket.

“Well, father, what’s gone wrong?” asked Kale, again.  “Your disappointment—­what was it?”

She spoke without animation, tonelessly, in a flat, even voice.  Since that night when her father had tried to force Waldron upon her, and had taunted her with loving the vagabond (as he said) who had rescued her, something seemed to have been broken, in her manner; some spring of action had snapped; some force was lacking now.

“What’s wrong with me?” asked Flint, trying to veil the secret malice and keen satisfaction that underlay his speech.  “Oh, just this.  You remember about a week ago, when we—­ah—­had that little talk in the music room—?”

“Don’t, father, please!” she begged, raising one strong, brown hand.  “Don’t bring that up again.  It’s all over and done with, that matter is.  I beg you, don’t re-open it!”

“I—­you misunderstand me, my dear child,” said Flint, trying to smile, but only flashing his gold tooth.  “At that time I told you I was looking for, and would reward, if found, the—­er—­man who had been so brave and quick-witted as to rescue you.  You remember?”