“Father, I listened because I love the girl,” Peter answered “Wait, please!  Let me explain.  I fell in love with her on the Monarchic.  Then something happened and I lost sight of her.  Yesterday I found her at the Hands.  I wanted to talk to her about love, but she made me listen to her instead.  She said sharp things about the store that cut like knives.  Don’t think I’m accusing you if the Hands is a sweatshop.  You trust Croft, and he’s abused his trust.  That must be it.  For God’s sake, give me a chance to help you put things straight.”

For a moment—­a long moment—­Peter senior did not speak, and Peter junior would have given much to know where his thoughts had gone.  They were away somewhere—­with the Hands or with the girl who had made Petro listen.

“Will you do it, Father?  Will you give me a chance?” his son repeated.

Old Peter started.  “Old Peter” seemed the only name that fitted him just then.

“One of my children is going to marry a marquis and the other wants to marry a clerk behind my counters,” he almost whimpered.

Then Petro knew, without telling, which direction his father’s thoughts had taken.

“Don’t be afraid that she isn’t a lady,” the young man humoured the old man’s prejudices.  “She’s English and beautiful and clever and brave.  She saved a woman from being burned to death to-day at the Hands.  She didn’t tell me that story, but I heard it.  God made her to be a princess.  Misfortune put her behind a counter in our store.  Oh, no! not misfortune.  Though she’s had a hard time at the Hands, and shows it in her face, I believe she’d say herself that she’s glad of the experience.  And if through her those that have suffered wrong from us can be—­”

“Don’t talk to me any more about all this just now, my son,” Peter senior suddenly implored rather than commanded “You’ve given me a shock—­several shocks.  I—­I’m not fit for ’em to-day, I guess.  I told you I wasn’t well.  I’m feeling bad.  I’m feeling mighty bad.”

His looks confirmed his words.  In the last few moments since the angry flush had passed, the old man’s face had faded to a sicklier yellow than Petro had ever seen upon it—­except one day, long ago, when Peter Rolls, Sr., had tried to be a yachtsman in order to please Ena—­and the weather had been unkind.  The young man was stabbed by remorse.  Reason told him that now was the moment to press his point home.  But compassion bade him withdraw it from the wound.  It was true that his father was not well and had warned him of the fact at the beginning of their conversation.  Petro had gone too far.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he apologized.  “I meant to stir you up, but I didn’t mean to give you a shock.  Shall I ring?  Is there anything you want?”

“Only to be alone,” replied the other.  “I’ll lie down here on the sofa.  By and by, if I don’t feel better, I’ll go to my room maybe and make it dark and sleep this headache off.  I don’t remember when I’ve been so bad.  But don’t say anything to your mother.”