“Father is only the ‘company,’ John.”

And so the admiral himself admitted when, an hour later, Fitzgerald put the affair before him, briefly and frankly.

“It is all her concern, my son, and only part of mine.  My part is to see that you keep in order.  I don’t know; I rather expected it.  Of course,” said the admiral, shifting his cigar, “there’s a business end to it.  I’m a rich man, but Laura isn’t worth a cent, in money.  Young men generally get the wrong idea, that daughters of wealthy parents must also be wealthy.”  He was glad to hear the young man laugh.  It was a good sign.

“My earnings and my income amount to about seven-thousand a year; and with an object in view I can earn more.  She says that will be plenty.”

“She’s a sensible girl; that ought to do to start on.  But let there be no nonsense about money.  Laura’s happiness; that’s the only thing worth considering.  I used to be afraid that she might bring a duke home.”  It was too dark for Fitzgerald to see the twinkle in the eyes of his future father-in-law.  “If worst comes to worst, why, you can be my private secretary.  The job is open at present,” dryly.  “I’ve been watching you; and I’m not afraid of your father’s son.  Where’s it to be?”

“We haven’t talked that over yet.”

The admiral drew him down to the space beside him on the parapet and offered the second greatest gift in his possession:  one of his selected perfectos.

The course of true love does not always run so smoothly.  A short distance up the road Cathewe was grimly fighting for his happiness.

“Hildegarde, forget him.  Must he spoil both our lives?  Come with me, be my wife.  I will make any and all sacrifices toward your contentment.”

“Have we not threshed this all out before, my friend?” sadly.  “Do not ask me to forget him rather let me ask you to forget me.”

“He will never be loyal to any one but himself.  He is selfish to the core.  Has he not proved it?” Where were the words he needed for this last defense?  Where his arguments to convince her?  He was losing; in his soul he knew it.  If his love for her was strong, hers for this outcast was no less.  “I have never wished the death of any man, but if he should die . . . !”

She interrupted him, her hands extended as in pleading.  Never had he seen a woman’s face so sad, “Arthur, I have more faith in you than in any other man, and I prize your friendship above all other things.  But who can say must to the heart?  Not you, not I!  Have I not fought it?  Have I not striven to forget, to trample out this fire?  Have you yourself not tried to banish me from your heart?  Have you succeeded?  Do you remember that night in Munich?  My voice broke, miserably, and my public career was ruined.  What caused it?  A note from him, saying that he had tired of the role and was leaving.  It was not my love he wanted after all; a slip of paper, which at any time would have been his for the asking.  Arthur, my friend, when you go from me presently it will be with loathing.  That night you went to his room . . . he lied to you.”