“F-fit to teach—­wahn’t she—­fit to teach?”

“I believe she has since qualified before Mr. Errol.”

“Fit to teach—­wahn’t fit to marry your son—­was she?”

Isaac Worthington clutched the table and started from his chair.  He grew white to his lips with anger, and yet he knew that he must control himself.

“Mr. Bass,” he said, “you have something to sell, and I have something to buy—­if the price is not ruinous.  Let us confine ourselves to that.  My affairs and my son’s affairs are neither here nor there.  I ask you again, how much do you want for this Consolidation Bill?”

“N-no money will buy it.”

“What!”

“C-consent to this marriage, c-consent to this marriage.”  There was yet room for Isaac Worthington to be amazed, and for a while he stared up at Jethro, speechless.

“Is that your price?” he asked at last.

“Th-that’s my price,” said Jethro.

Isaac Worthington got up and went to the window and stood looking out above the black mass of trees at the dome outlined against the star-flecked sky.  At first his anger choked him, and he could not think; he had just enough reason left not to walk out of the door.  But presently habit asserted itself in him, too, and he began to reflect and calculate in spite of his anger.  It is strange that memory plays so small a part in such a man.  Before he allowed his mind to dwell on the fearful price, he thought of his ambitions gratified; and yet he did not think then of the woman to whom he had once confided those ambitions—­the woman who was the girl’s mother.  Perhaps Jethro was thinking of her.

It may have been—­I know not—­that Isaac Worthington wondered at this revelation of the character of Jethro Bass, for it was a revelation.  For this girl’s sake Jethro was willing to forego his revenge, was willing at the end of his days to allow the world to believe that he had sold out to his enemy, or that he had been defeated by him.

But when he thought of the marriage, Isaac Worthington ground his teeth.  A certain sentiment which we may call pride was so strong in him that he felt ready to make almost any sacrifice to prevent it.  To hinder it he had quarrelled with his son, and driven him away, and threatened disinheritance.  The price was indeed heavy—­the heaviest he could pay.  But the alternative—­was not that heavier?  To relinquish his dream of power, to sink for a while into a crippled state; for he had spent large sums, and one of those periodical depressions had come in the business of the mills, and those Western investments were not looking so bright now.

So, with his hands opening and closing in front of him, Isaac Worthington fought out his battle.  A terrible war, that, between ambition and pride—­a war to the knife.  The issue may yet have been undecided when he turned round to Jethro with a sneer which he could not resist.

“Why doesn’t she marry him without my consent?”