“At first he was inclined to laugh about it, and to think that it was nothing,” Martie said almost timidly, glancing from one to the other, and keeping one hand over Teddy’s hand.

“What makes you feel that you haven’t given the thing due consideration, Martie?” her father asked darkly, with the air of humouring a child’s fantastic whims.

“Yes!  You’ve been engaged for months!” Lydia shot in.

“Well, it’s only lately, Pa,” Martie confessed mildly.

“Exactly!  Since somebody came along to upset you!” said Lydia.  “All I can say is, that I think it would break Ma’s heart!” she added violently.  “You give up a fine man like Cliff Frost, and now I suppose we’ll have some of your divorced friends hanging about—­”

“Lyd, dear, don’t be so bitter,” Martie said gently, almost maternally.  “Mr. Dryden has gone off for a long tour; he may not be back for years.  What I plan to do now is go to New York.  I told Cliff that—­that I wanted to go.”

“May I ask how you intend to live there?” Malcolm asked, with magnificent and obvious restraint.

“By writing, Pa.”

“You plan to take your child, and reenter—­”

“I think I would leave Teddy, Pa, for a while at least.”  They had all left the table now, and gone into the parlour, and Martie, sinking into a chair, rested her chin on her hand, and looked bravely yet a trifle uncomfortably at her interlocutors.  Teddy had dashed out into the yard.

“Now, I think we have heard about enough of this nonsense, Martie,” said her father, in a changed and hostile tone.  Lydia gave a satisfied nod; Pa was taking a stand at last.  “You didn’t have to say that you would marry Clifford,” he went on sternly.  “You did so as a responsible woman, of your own accord!  Now you propose to make him and your family ridiculous, just for a whim.  I sent you money to come on here, after your husband’s death, and all your life I have tried to be a good father to you.  What is my reward?  You run away and marry the first irresponsible scamp that asks you; you show no sign of repentance or feeling until you are in trouble; you come back, at my invitation, and are made as welcome here as if you had been the most dutiful daughter in the world, and then—­then—­you propose to bring fresh sorrow and disgrace upon the parent who lifted you out of your misery, and offered you a home, and forgot and forgave the past!  I am not a rich man, but what I have has been freely yours, your child has been promised a home for my lifetime.  What more can you ask?  But no,” said Malcolm, pacing the floor, “you turn against me; yours is the hand that strikes me down in my age!  Now I tell you, Martie, that things have gone far enough.  If you follow your own course in this affair, you do so at your own risk.  The day you break your engagement, you are no longer my daughter.  The day you let it be known that you are acting in this flighty and irresponsible way, that day your welcome here is withdrawn!  I will not be made the laughing-stock of this town!”