delicate task. He had made up his mind to-night to speak seriously to Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr. Vince. The more he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this was the human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these weary years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the forehead, and began to speak.
It had long been Mr. Warden’s opinion that, if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient frankness. She had not that easy tact which he would have liked a daughter of his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She was at times painfully blunt.
This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted him with a question.
“What makes you think Mr. Vince is rich, father?” she asked.
Mr. Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr. Vince’s opulence had not entered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact that he was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The question was not in order, and it embarrassed him.
“I—why—I don’t—I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt that he has ample—”
“He is quite poor.”
Mr. Warden’s jaw fell slightly.
“Poor? But, my dear, that’s absurd!” he cried. “Why, only this evening—”
He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.
“Father, you’ve been borrowing money from him!”
Mr. Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had every quality but one. He could not conceal his operations from his daughter. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this matter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far to spoiling for him the triumph of success.
“And he has to pawn things to live!” Her voice trembled. “He was at the mont-de-piété to-day. And yesterday too. I heard him. He was arguing with M. Gandinot—haggling—”
Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too raw and vivid.
Mr. Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware, also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young man who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have been disastrous results.
The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr. Vince.
He entered the room briskly.
“Good evening!” he said. “I have brought you some more chocolates, Miss Warden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What’s the matter?”
He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across the room, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr. Warden, was holding Ruth in his arms. She clung to him.