He stared at her through a flash like a man stupefied; and then, wheeling abruptly, walked away from her to the windows which overlooked the park.  For some time he stood there, back determinedly toward her, staring with great fixity at nothing.  But when he returned to her, she had never seen his face so stern.

“You must be mad to suggest such a thing.  Mad!  Of course I shall not allow you to do it.  I shall not give you the money for any such purpose.”

“But if it is mine, as you wrote?” said Sharlee, looking up at him from the back of her big chair.

Her point manifestly was unanswerable.  With characteristic swiftness, he abandoned it, and fell back to far stronger ground.

“Yes, the money is yours,” he said stormily.  “But that is all.  My father’s name is mine.”

That silenced her, for the moment at least, and he swept rapidly on.

“I do not in the least approve of your giving your money to establish a foundation at all.  That, however, is a matter with which, unfortunately, I have nothing to do.  But with my father’s name I have everything to do.  I shall not permit you to—­”

“Surely—­oh, surely, you will not refuse me so small a thing which would give me so much happiness.”

“Happiness?” He flung the word back at her impatiently, but his intention of demolishing it was suddenly checked by a flashing remembrance of Fifi’s definition of it.  “Will you kindly explain how you would get happiness from that?”

“Oh—­if you don’t see, I am afraid I—­could never explain—­”

“It is a display of just the same sort of unthinking Quixotism which has led you hitherto to refuse to accept your own money.  What you propose is utterly irrational in every way.  Can you deny it?  Can you defend your proposal by any reasonable argument?  I cannot imagine how so—­so mad an idea ever came into your mind.”

She sat still, her fingers playing with the frayed edges of Mr. Dayne’s blotting-pad, and allowed the silence to enfold them once more.

“Your foundation,” he went on, with still further loss of motive power, “would—­gain nothing by bearing the name of my father.  He was not worthy....  No one knows that better than you.  Will you tell me what impulse put it into your mind to—­to do this?”

“I—­had many reasons,” said she, speaking with some difficulty.  “I will tell you one.  My father loved him once.  I know he would like me to do something—­to make the name honorable again.”

“That,” he said, in a hard voice, “is beyond your power.”

She showed no disposition to contradict him, or even to maintain the conversation.  Presently he went on:—­

“I cannot let you injure your foundation by—­branding it with his notoriety, in an impulsive and—­and fruitless generosity.  For it would be fruitless.  You, of all people, must understand that the burden on the other side is—­impossibly heavy.  You know that, don’t you?”