Lydia was in tears; Martie pale.  But the younger woman did not speak.  She had been watching her father with slightly dilated eyes and a rising breast, while he spoke.

“Cliff generous?” Malcolm went on.  “Of course he’s generous!  He probably doesn’t know what to make of it; responsible people don’t blow hot and cold like this!  The idea of your going in to him with any such cock-and-bull story as this!  You’ll break your engagement, eh?—­and go on to New York for a while, eh?—­and then come smiling back, I suppose, and marry him when it suits your own sweet will?  Well, now, I’ll tell you something, young lady,” he added, with a sort of confident menace, “you’ll do nothing of the kind!  You sit down now and write Clifford a note, and tell him you were a fool.  And don’t let me ever hear another word of this New York nonsense!  Upon my word, I don’t know how I ever came to have such children!  Other people’s children seem to have some sense, and act like reasonable human beings, but mine—­however, you know what I feel now, Martie.  Going into the Bank indeed, and telling the man you’re going to marry that you are ‘afraid’ this and you ‘fancy’ that!  I’ll not have it, I tell you!”

“I told him that I knew I was acting badly,” Martie said, “I said that I felt terribly about it.  I even cried—­I’m not proud of myself, Pa!  And he asked me to think it over, and not to worry about postponing the wedding, and—­I think he was tremendously surprised, but he didn’t say one unkind word!”

“Well, he should have, then,” Malcolm said harshly.  “And you are a fortunate woman if, when it suits your high-and-mightiness to come to your senses, he doesn’t take his turn to jilt you!  On my word, I never heard anything like it!  What possesses you is more than I can understand.  You deliberately bring unhappiness down on your family, and act as if you were proud of yourself!  I don’t pretend to be perfect, but all my life I have given my children generously—­”

“Pa,” Martie said suddenly, “I wonder if you believe that!” She stood up now, facing him, her breath coming quickly.  It seemed to Martie that she had been waiting all her life to say this:  hoping for the opportunity, years ago, dreading the necessity now.  “I wonder if you believe,” she said, trembling a little, “that you—­and half the other fathers and mothers in the world—­are really in the right!  I didn’t ask to be born; Sally didn’t ask to be born.  We didn’t choose our sex.  We came and we grew up, and went to school, and we had clothing and food enough.  But then—­then!—­when we must really begin to live, you suddenly failed us.  Oh, you aren’t different from other fathers, Pa.  It’s just that you don’t understand!  What help had we then in forming human relationships?  When did you ever tell us why this young man was a possible husband, and that one was not?  I wanted to work, I wanted to be a nurse, or a bookkeeper—­you laughed at me!