At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated.  “Father,” she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulged child, “I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me.  I thought I had your promise.”

“I said I’d think about it,” replied her father.  He had a heavy voice that now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano in the corner to a dismal groan.  “I’ve decided to speak out.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Norman.  “Is your quarrel with me?”

Josephine attempted an easy laugh.  “It’s that silly story we were talking about the other day, Fred.”

“I supposed so,” said he.  “You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs—­” He laughed amiably—­“at least not a cigar.”

“The doctor only allows me one, and I’ve had it,” replied Burroughs, his eyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip.  “What is the truth about that business, Norman?”

Norman’s amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly.  “Why do you ask?” he inquired.

“Because my daughter’s happiness is at stake.  Because I cannot but resent a low scandal about a man who wishes to marry my daughter.”

“Very proper, sir,” said Norman graciously.

“My daughter,” continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, “tells me you have denied the story.”

[Illustration:  “’Father ...  I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me.’”]

Norman interrupted with an astonished look at Josephine.  She colored, gazed at him imploringly.  His face terrified her.  When body and mind are in health and at rest the fullness of the face hides the character to a great extent.  But when a human being is sick or very tired the concealing roundness goes and in the clearly marked features the true character is revealed.  In Norman’s face, haggard by his wearing emotions, his character stood forth—­the traits of strength, of tenacity, of inevitable purpose.  And Josephine saw and dreaded.

“But,” Burroughs went on, “I have it on the best authority that it is true.”

Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled.  “Then you wish to break off the engagement?” he said in the gentlest, smoothest tone.

Burroughs brought his fist down on the table—­and Norman recognized the gesture of the bluffer.  “I wish you to break off with that woman!” he cried.  “I insist upon it—­upon positive assurances from you.”

“Fred!” pleaded Josephine.  “Don’t listen to him.  Remember, I have said nothing.”

He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her.  It now seemed to him that he had found it.  “Why should you?” he said genially but with subtle irony, “since you are getting your father to speak for you.”

There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her into disorder.  She had been afraid of the consequences of her father’s interfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time she had longed to have some one put a check upon him.  Norman’s suave remark made her feel that he could see into her inmost soul—­could see the anger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, the love-saturated hate seething and warring there.