Burroughs was saying:  “If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, I should deal very differently with this matter.”

“Why should that deter you?” said Norman—­and Josephine gave a piteous gasp.  “If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred.”

Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the young man in puzzled amazement.  “I see you think you have us in your power,” he said at last.  “But you are mistaken.”

“On the contrary,” rejoined the young man, “I see you believe you have me in your power.  And in a sense you are not mistaken.”

“Father, he is right,” cried Josephine agitatedly.  “I shouldn’t love and respect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring.”

“Hectoring!” exclaimed Burroughs.  “Josephine, leave the room.  I cannot discuss this matter properly before you.”

“I hope you will not leave, Josephine,” said Norman.  “There is nothing to be said that you cannot and ought not to hear.”

“I’m not an infant, father,” said Josephine.  “Besides, it is as Fred says.  He has done nothing—­improper.”

“Then why does he not say so?” demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance to recede from his former too advanced position.  “That’s all I ask.”

“But I told you all about it, father,” said Josephine angrily.  “They’ve been distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit.”

Norman avoided the glance she sent to him; it was only a glance and away, for more formidably than ever his power was enthroned in his haggard face.  He stood with his back to the fire and it was plain that the muscles of his strong figure were braced to give and to receive a shock.  “Mr. Burroughs,” he said, “your daughter is mistaken.  Perhaps it is my fault—­in having helped her to mislead herself.  The plain truth is, I have become infatuated with a young woman.  She cares nothing about me—­has repulsed me.  I have been and am making a fool of myself about her.  I’ve been hoping to cure myself.  I still hope.  But I am not cured.”

There was absolute silence in the room.  Norman stole a glance at Josephine.  She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastly face.

He said:  “If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall be grateful—­and I shall make what effort I can to do my best.”

He looked at her and she at him.  And for an instant her eyes softened.  There was the appeal of weak human heart to weak human heart in his gaze.  Her lip quivered.  A brief struggle between vanity and love—­and vanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating it since earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when love came—­it was vanity that won.  She stiffened herself and her mouth curled with proud scorn.  She laughed—­a sneer of jealous rage.  “Father,” she said, “the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office.”

But to men—­especially to practical men—­differences of rank and position among women are not fundamentally impressive.  Man is in the habit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he finds it, and he understands that habit in other men.  He was furious with Norman, but he did not sympathize with his daughter’s extreme attitude.  He said to Norman sharply: