“You say you have broken with the woman?”

“She has broken with me,” replied Norman.

“At any rate, everything is broken off.”

“Apparently.”

“Then there is no reason why the marriage should not go on.”  He turned to his daughter.  “If you understood men, you would attach no importance to this matter.  As you yourself said, the woman isn’t a lady—­isn’t in our class.  That sort of thing amounts to nothing.  Norman has acted well.  He has shown the highest kind of honesty—­has been truthful where most men would have shifted and lied.  Anyhow, things have gone too far.”  Not without the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as his son-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of his pre-eminent fitness were so rare.

There was another profound silence.  Josephine looked at Norman.  Had he returned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within her there was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matched vanities—­the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of what the world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at that time and in those circumstances.  But he did not look at her.  He kept his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion of any kind in his stony features.  Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, looked arrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears—­tears of self-pity.  “Send him away, father,” she said.  “He has tried to degrade me!  I am done with him.”  And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his chair to detain her.

He turned angrily on Norman.  “A hell of a mess you’ve made!” he cried.

“A hell of a mess,” replied the young man.

“Of course she’ll come round.  But you’ve got to do your part.”

“It’s settled,” said Norman.  And he threw his cigar into the fireplace.  “Good night.”

“Hold on!” cried Burroughs.  “Before you go, you must see Josie alone and talk with her.”

“It would be useless,” said Norman.  “You know her.”

Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man’s shoulder.  “This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young people your happiness for life.  This is no time for jealousy and false pride.  Wait a moment.”

“Very well,” said Norman.  “But it is useless.”  He understood Josephine now—­he who had become a connoisseur of love.  He knew that her vanity-founded love had vanished.

Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken.  Norman waited several minutes—­long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette.  Then he went into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation.  No one appeared, not even a servant.  He went out into the street.

In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of the invitations—­and from half a column to several columns of comment, much of it extremely unflattering to him.