When Mr. Flint arrived, fresh as usual in spite of the work he had accomplished and the cigars he had smoked the night before, Mr. Worthington still had the letter in his hand, and was pacing his library floor, and broke into a tirade against his son.

“After all I have done for him, building up for him a position and a fortune that is only surpassed by young Duncan’s, to treat me in this way, to drag down the name of Worthington in the mire.  I’ll never forgive him.  I’ll send for Dixon and leave the money for a hospital in Brampton.  Can’t you suggest any way out of this, Flint?”

“No,” said Flint, “not now.  The only chance you have is to ignore the thing from now on.  He may get tired of her—­I’ve known such things to happen.”

“When she hears that I’ve disinherited him, she will get tired of him,” declared Mr. Worthington.

“Try it and see, if you like,” said Flint.

“Look here, Flint, if the woman has a spark of decent feeling, as you seem to think, I’ll send for her and tell her that she will ruin Robert if she marries him.”  Mr. Worthington always spoke of his son as “Robert.”

“You ought to have thought of that before the mass meeting.  Perhaps it would have done some good then.”

“Because this Penniman woman has stirred people up—­is that what you mean?  I don’t care anything about that.  Money counts in the long run.”

“If money counted with this school-teacher, it would be a simple matter.  I think you’ll find it doesn’t.”

“I’ve known you to make some serious mistakes,” snapped Mr. Worthington.

“Then why do you ask for my advice?”

“I’ll send for her, and appeal to her better nature,” said Mr. Worthington, with an unconscious and sublime irony.

Flint gave no sign that he heard.  Mr. Worthington seated himself at his desk, and after some thought wrote on a piece of note-paper the following lines:  “My dear Miss Wetherell, I should be greatly obliged if you would find it convenient to call at my house at eight o’clock this evening,” and signed them, “Sincerely Yours.”  He sealed them up in an envelope and addressed it to Miss Wetherell, at the schoolhouse; and handed it to Mr. Flint.  That gentleman got as far as the door, and then he hesitated and turned.

“There is just one way out of this for you, that I can see, Mr. Worthington,” he said.  “It’s a desperate measure, but it’s worth thinking about.”

“What’s that?”

It took some courage for Mr. Flint, to make the suggestion.  “The girl’s a good girl, well educated, and by no means bad looking.  Bob might do a thousand times worse.  Give your consent to the marriage, and Jethro Bass will go back to Coniston.”

It was wisdom such as few lords get from their seneschals, but Isaac D. Worthington did not so recognize it.  His anger rose and took away his breath as he listened to it.

“I will never give my consent to it, never—­do you hear?—­never.  Send that note!” he cried.