“Don’t be an idiot,” ordered Mr. Cressy.  “A woman can have as many view-points as there are days in the year, counting Sundays double.  You have no more idea this minute where Carlotta stands than—­than I have,” he finished ignominiously, wiping his perspiring forehead with an imported linen handkerchief.

“Do you mind telling me just why you are here, if Carlotta didn’t send you?  I don’t flatter myself you automatically selected me for your new post without some rather definite reason behind it.”

“I came because I had a notion you were the best man for another job—­a job that makes the whole brokerage business look like a game of jack-straws—­the job of marrying my daughter Carlotta.”

Phil stared.  He had not expected Mr. Cressy to take this position.  He had been ready enough to believe Carlotta’s prophecy that her parent would raise a merry little row if she announced to him her intention of marrying that obscure individual, Philip Lambert, of Dunbury, Massachusetts.  He thought that particular way of behavior on the parent’s part not only probable but more or less justifiable, all things considered.  He saw no reason now why Mr. Cressy should feel otherwise.

Harrison Cressy drained a deep draught of water, once more wiped his highly shining brow and leaned forward over the table toward his puzzled guest.

“You see, Philip,” he went on using the young man’s first name for the first time.  “Carlotta is in love with you.”

Philip flushed and his frank eyes betrayed that this, though not entirely new news, was not unwelcome to hear.

“In fact,” continued Carlotta’s father grimly, “she is so much in love with you she is going to marry another man.”

The light went out of Phil’s eyes at that, but he said nothing to this any more than he had to the preceding statement.  He waited for the other man to get at what he wanted to say.

“I can’t stand Carlotta’s being miserable.  I never could.  It is why I am here, to see if I can’t fix up a deal with you to straighten things out.  I am in your hands, boy, at your mercy.  I have the reputation of being hard as shingle nails.  I’m soft as putty where the girl is concerned.  It kills me by inches to have her unhappy.”

“Is she—­very unhappy?” Phil’s voice was sober.  He thought that he too was soft as putty, or softer where Carlotta was concerned.  It made him sick all over to think of her being unhappy.

“She is—­damnably unhappy.”  Harrison Cressy blew his nose with a sound as of a trumpet.  “Here you,” he bellowed at the waiter who was timidly approaching.  “Is that our steak at last?  Bring it here, quick and don’t jibber.  Are you deaf and dumb as well as paralyzed?”

The host attacked the steak with ferocity, slammed a generous section on a plate and fairly threw it at the young man opposite.  Phil wasn’t interested in steak.  He scarcely looked at it.  His eyes were on Mr. Cressy, his thoughts were on that gentleman’s only daughter.