thing will happen. If you go back to the farm you'll marry Crispin Harlowe."
He ceased speaking, but the echo of his words seemed to persist, "You'll marry him, marry him, marry him. . . ." It swung like a peal of bells. "You'll marry him, marry him, marry him."
And now Carew brought out with violence, "A crude countryman!"
"He's splendid."
"You'll be buried. As my daughter, there would be opportunities to see the world, to broaden your life. And you love luxury, Hildegarde. You're like me in that. Your mother could do without it. But you can't."
Argument upon argument. Blaze meeting blaze. At last Carew pushed back his chair and stood up. "All I ask is that you'll think it over. Talk about it with Anne. She's sensible. I'm afraid I'm not patient. The thing is too theatrical."
He flung himself from the room, and Hildegarde, numb with distress, sat where he had left her. Now that the thing was done, it seemed to her dreadful that she had done it.
The two dogs came in presently, dropped down beside her, waiting patiently. It was the hour for her morning ride, and she had put on her riding clothes, but inertia gripped her. She had not expected to find her father up so early. He was rarely out of his room before noon. But coming upon him in the library, she blurted out the whole thing, shaking a little from nervousness, but none the less determined to get it over.
