“Would be exactly like this one,” he finished for her crisply.  “The sole difference is that it happens to be my father who hid the money away instead of yours.”

There was a silence.

“I am sorry,” said she, constrainedly, “that you take this—­this view.  I had hoped so much that you might agree with me.  Nevertheless, I think my mind is quite made up.  I—­”

“Then why on earth have you gone through the formality of consulting me, only to tell me—­”

“Oh—­because I thought it would be so nice if you would agree with me!”

“But I do not agree with you,” he said, looking at her with frowning steadiness.  “I do not.  Nobody on earth would agree with you.  Have you talked with your friends about this mad proposal?  Have you—­”

“None of them but you.  I did not care to.”

The little speech affected him beyond all expectation; in full flight as he was, it stopped him dead.  He lost first the thread of his argument; then his steadiness of eye and manner; and when he spoke, it was to follow up, not his own thought, but her implication, with those evidences of embarrassment which he could never hide.

“So we are friends again,” he stated, in rather a strained voice.

“If you are willing—­to take me back.”

He sat silent, drumming a tattoo on his chair-arm with long, strong fingers; and when he resumed his argument, it was with an entire absence of his usual air of authority.

“On every score, you ought to keep your money—­to make yourself comfortable—­to stop working—­to bring yourself more pleasures, trips, whatever you want—­all exactly as your father intended.”

“Oh! don’t argue with me, please!  I asked you not.  I must either take it for that or not at all.”

“It—­it is not my part,” he said reluctantly, “to dictate what you shall do with your own.  I cannot sympathize in the least with your—­your mad proposal.  Not in the least.  However, I must assume that you know your own mind.  If it is quite made up—­”

“Oh, it is!  I have thought it all over so carefully—­and with so much pleasure.”

He rose decisively.  “Very well, I will go to my lawyers at once—­this morning.  They will arrange it as you wish.”

“Oh—­will you?  How can I thank you?  And oh,” she added hastily, “there was—­another point that I—­I wished to speak to you about.”

He gazed down at her, looking so small and sorrowful-eyed in her great chair, and all at once his knees ran to water, and the terrible fear clutched at him that his manhood would not last him out of the room.  This was the reason, perhaps, that his voice was the little Doctor’s at its brusquest as he said:—­

“Well?  What is it?”

“The question,” she said nervously, “of a—­a name for this reformatory that I want to found.  I have thought a great deal about that.  It is a—­large part of my idea.  And I have decided that my reformatory shall be called—­that is, that I should like to call it—­the Henry G. Surface Home.”