“I—­” he hesitated, “decided—­”

But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward.

“Don’t dodge the question.  Yes or no?”

Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red.

“No,” he said.

The visitor’s hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee.

“Thank you.  I have one more question to ask.  Do you intend, without trying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chance of future happiness?  Are you, Florence’s father, going to let her marry Sidwell?”

With one motion Scotty was on his feet.  The eyes behind the thick lenses fairly flashed.

“You are insulting, sir,” he blazed.  “I can stand much from you, Ben Blair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook.  I request you to leave my premises!”

Blair did not stir.  His face remained as impassive as before.

“Your pardon again,” he said steadily, “but I refuse.  I did not come to quarrel with you, and I won’t; but we will have an understanding—­now.  Sit down, please.”

The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth.  Had any one told him he would be coerced in this way within his own home he would have called that person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no more.

“Sit down, please,” repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or a protest, he was obeyed.

Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward.  “Mr. Baker,” he said, “you do not doubt that I love Florence—­that I wish nothing but her good?”

Scotty nodded a reluctant assent.

“No; I don’t doubt you, Ben,” he said.

The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense.

“You know what Sidwell is—­what the result will be if Florence marries him?”

Scotty’s head dropped into his hands.  He knew what was coming.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted.

Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that his ordinarily passive face was working in a way which no one would have thought possible.

“In heaven’s name, then,” he said, slowly, “why do you allow it?  Have you forgotten that it is only three days until the date set?  God! man, you must be sleeping!  It is ghastly—­even the thought of it!”

Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up.  The intensity of the appeal was a thing to put life into a figure of clay.  For an instant he felt the stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; then his impotence returned.

“I have tried, Ben,” he explained weakly, “but I can do nothing.  If I attempted to interfere it would only make matters worse.  Florence is as completely out of my control as—­” he paused for a simile—­“as the sunshine.  I missed my opportunity with her when she was young.  She has always had her own way, and she will have it now.  It is the same as when she decided to come to town.  She controls me, not I her.”