“I understand that perfectly!” Royal said, serenely.  But underneath, while not moved from his intention, he felt his customary assurance shaken.

“She is extravagant, naturally,” her father said.  “She will want new gowns, want to display her new importance a little.  Those bills will come to you, Mr. Blondin.  All the world will know as well as you do that I have washed my hands of the whole affair.”

Royal nodded again.  He began to be conscious of a growing disquietude.  He had naturally given much thought to this exact question during the past few weeks, and had solved it only by dismissing it.  He had assured himself that with his only daughter no man as generous as Carter could be really harsh, and had always held his knowledge of Harriet comfortably in the back of his mind, as an irresistible lever.  Now both these considerations were losing their force, and the empty satisfaction of defying Richard seemed to be losing its flavour, too.

Blondin had no money, and lived with an extravagance that kept him perpetually worried for money.  The rent of his studio had been raised; he was conscious of the necessity of returning hospitalities, of buying clothes.  His credit would receive an immediate assistance from a marriage with Richard Carter’s daughter, to be sure, but to sustain a credit for three years upon that shadowy footing would be extremely trying.

He liked Nina; despite his contempt for the girl, there was a certain pitying affection for her stubborn loyalty and simplicity.  But he knew exactly what hideous scenes must follow upon his marriage with her.  What could he do with her, even suppose him to have borrowed money enough to make their honeymoon a success?  He imagined her dawdling about his studio, imagined his social standing as necessarily affected, imagined Mr. and Mrs. Royal Blondin attempting to reach an agreement as to which invitations would be accepted and which rejected.  Railway fares, luncheons downtown, all these cost money—­lots of money.  Nina would want to entertain “the girls.”  And Royal had at present several serious debts.  He had lost money on three morning lectures, delightful lectures and well-attended, but still a financial loss.  He had been foolish enough to lose money at bridge, at the Bellamys’ a week ago, and young Bellamy was carrying his check for three hundred and twelve dollars, drawn upon a bank where Royal was already overdrawn.  Then there was an unpleasantness about three rugs, rugs he had taken four years ago, in a moment of unbelievable prosperity, but for which seven hundred and twenty dollars had been promised, and never paid.  Royal had indeed offered Hagopian the rugs and a bonus, back again; he was sick of the studio, and the endless reminders from his landlord’s agent that the monthly one hundred and seventy-five dollars was overdue; he was sick of the whole business.

But Hagopian had refused to take back the rugs, and the rent had reached the four-figure mark, and until he had settled for the last lectures, he did not feel encouraged to begin more.