“Bishop,” said my father, raising his hand, “I guess it’s my right to butt in here, isn’t it?”

I saw that my father’s face had been darkening while the Reverend Mother spoke, and now, rolling his heavy body in his chair so as to face her, he said: 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but when you say I’ve done nothing for my gel here I suppose you’ll allow I’ve kept her and educated her?”

“You’ve kept and educated your dogs and horses, also, I dare say, but do you claim the same rights over a human being?”

“I do, ma’am—­I think I do.  And when the human being happens to be my own daughter I don’t allow that anybody else has anything to say.”

“If her mother were alive would she have nothing to say?”

I thought my father winced at that word, but he answered: 

“Her mother would agree to anything I thought best.”

“Her mother, so far as I can see, was a most unselfish, most submissive, most unhappy woman,” said the Reverend Mother.

My father glanced quickly at me and then, after a moment, he said: 

“I’m obliged to you, ma’am, much obliged.  But as I’m not a man to throw words away I’ll ask you to tell me what all this means.  Does it mean that you’ve made plans of your own for my daughter without consulting me?”

“No, sir.”

“Then perhaps it means that the gel herself . . .”

“That may be so or not—­I cannot say.  But when you sent your daughter to a convent-school . . .”

“Wrong, ma’am, wrong for once.  It was my wife’s sister—­who thinks the gel disobedient and rebellious and unruly . . .”

“Then your wife’s sister is either a very stupid or a very bad-hearted woman.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have known your daughter longer than she has, and there isn’t a word of truth in what she says.”

It was as much as I could do not to fall on the Reverend Mother’s neck, but I clung to her hand with a convulsive grasp.

“May be so, ma’am, may be no,” said my father.  “But when you talk about my sending my daughter to a convent-school I would have you know that I’ve been so busy with my business . . .”

“That you haven’t had time to take care of the most precious thing God gave you.”

“Ma’am,” said my father, rising to his feet, “may I ask what right you have to speak to me as if . . .”

“The right of one who for ten years has been a mother to your motherless child, sir, while you have neglected and forgotten her.”

At that my father, whose bushy eyebrows were heavily contracted, turned to the Bishop.

“Bishop,” he said, “is this what I’ve been paying my money for?  Ten years’ fees, and middling high ones too, I’m thinking?”

And then the Bishop, apparently hoping to make peace, said suavely: 

“But aren’t we crossing the river before we reach the bridge?  The girl herself may have no such objections.  Have you?” he asked, turning to me.