Her father interrupted.  “Now look here, Veronica, let us be plain with each other.  You are not going to that infidel Russell’s classes.  You are not going anywhere but to the Tredgold College.  I’ve thought that out, and you must make up your mind to it.  All sorts of considerations come in.  While you live in my house you must follow my ideas.  You are wrong even about that man’s scientific position and his standard of work.  There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—­simply laugh at him.  And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—­well, next door to shameful.  There’s stories, too, about his demonstrator, Capes Something or other.  The kind of man who isn’t content with his science, and writes articles in the monthly reviews.  Anyhow, there it is:  You are not going there.”

The girl received this intimation in silence, but the face that looked down upon the gas fire took an expression of obstinacy that brought out a hitherto latent resemblance between parent and child.  When she spoke, her lips twitched.

“Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?”

“It seems the natural course—­”

“And do nothing?”

“There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home.”

“Until some one takes pity on me and marries me?”

He raised his eyebrows in mild appeal.  His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers.

“Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?”

He regarded her as though this was a new idea.

“Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?”

“You won’t.”

“Well”—­her breath failed her for a moment.  “How would you prevent it?” she asked.

“But I have forbidden it!” he said, raising his voice.

“Yes, I know.  But suppose I go?”

“Now, Veronica!  No, no.  This won’t do.  Understand me!  I forbid it.  I do not want to hear from you even the threat of disobedience.”  He spoke loudly.  “The thing is forbidden!”

“I am ready to give up anything that you show to be wrong.”

“You will give up anything I wish you to give up.”

They stared at each other through a pause, and both faces were flushed and obstinate.

She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears.  But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came.  “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered.  “I mean to go to that dance!  I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason.  You’re dogmatic.”

At the sight of her tears his expression changed to a mingling of triumph and concern.  He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly.  She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.  His voice now had lost its ironies.