“Yes, sir,” she gulped; she wet her lips.  “Yes, sir,” she said again.

“You admit it?” said Malcolm, his eyes narrowing.

Lydia, pale and terrified, had come in from the kitchen.  Now she suddenly spoke.

“Oh, Pa, don’t—­don’t blame Martie for that!  You know what the girls always were to each other—­I don’t mean to be impertinent, Pa—­do forgive me!—­but Martie and Sally always—–­” “One moment, Lydia,” said her father, with a repressive gesture, the veins blue on his forehead.  “Just—­one—­moment.”  And, panting, he turned again to Martie.  “Yes, and who else did you see in Pittsville?” he whispered, his voice failing.

Martie, breathing fast, her bright eyes fixed upon him with a sort of fascination, did not answer.

“I’ll tell you who you saw,” said Malcolm at white heat.  “I’ll tell you!  You met this young whippersnapper Jackanapes—­what’s his name—­ this young one-night actor—–­”

“Do you mean Mr. Wallace Bannister?” Martis asked with a sort of frightened scorn.

Lydia and her mother gasped audibly in the silence.  Malcolm moved his eyes slowly from his youngest daughter’s face to his wife’s, to Lydia’s, and back to Martie again.  For two dreadful moments he studied her, an ugly smile touching his harsh mouth.

“You don’t deny it,” he said, after the interval, in a shaking voice.  “You don’t deny that you’ve been disobeying me and lying to me for weeks?  Now I tell you, my girl—­there’s been enough of this sort of thing going on in this family.  You couldn’t get the man you wanted, so, like your sister, you pick up—–­”

Martie laughed briefly and bitterly.  The sound seemed to madden him.  For a moment he watched her, his head dropped forward like a menacing animal.

“Understand me, Martie,” he said.  “I’ll break that spirit in you—­if it takes the rest of my life!  You’ll laugh in a different way!  My God—­am I to be the laughing-stock of this entire town?  Is a girl your age to—–­”

“Pa!” sobbed Mrs. Monroe.  “Do what you think best, but don’t—­don’t excite yourself so!”

Her clutching fingers on his arm seemed to soothe in through all his fury.  He fell silent, still panting, and eying Martie belligerently.

“You—­go to your room!” he commanded, pointing a shaking finger at her.  “Go upstairs with your sister, Lydia, and bring me the key of her door.  When I decide upon the measure that will bring this young lady quickest to her senses, I’ll let her know.  Meanwhile—–­”

“Oh, Pa, you needn’t lock Martie in,” quivered Lydia, “she’ll stay—­ won’t you, Martie?”

Martie, like a young animal at bay, stood facing them all for a breathless moment.  In that time the child that had been in her, through all these years of slow development, died.  Anger went out of her eyes, and an infinite sadness filled them.  A quick tremble of her lips and a flutter at her nostrils were the only signs she gave of the tears she felt rising.  She flung one arm about her mother and kissed the wet, faded cheek.