that loves it . . . that wants it . . . at any price. But there's another part that can't stay."
It was, he knew, the mother in her that gave her that sense of pride and independence. Hildegarde had told him she was leaving because she could not be a burden to her father. She had found out, she said, that he was spending more than he could afford. But not a word had she divulged of Carew's capitulation to Winslow's cupidity.
"Whether you are here or there, I shall always love you, Hildegarde. You know that?"
"Yes."
"And I can make you happy."
She gave him a flashing smile. "Cock-o'-the-walk," she whispered.
He held her hand in a tight grip. "Well? Why not? Wherever you go—wherever you are—you are mine to the end of the world!"
It was perhaps the bravery of his words, which helped Hildegarde the next day when she faced her father in the library.
"Why are you leaving me, Hildegarde?"
"Because I shouldn't have come, Daddy."
"Why shouldn't you?"
She flushed. "Daughters are expensive."
"Have I made you feel that way?"
"No. You've been wonderful. But I can't stay."
"You are not going to give me any explanation?"
"I can't."
He crossed the hearth-rug and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look at me."
Her eyes, so like his eyes, gave him a straight glance.
