All the afternoon conscience waged war with anger, shame, pride and
fear--fear for the future, fear of her father, for she had never
before seen him look as he had since he had met her on the piazza
the evening before. He had manifested none of his usual traits of
irritability alternating with a coldness corresponding to her own. He
seemed to have passed beyond these surface indications of trouble
to the condition of one who sees evils that he cannot avert and who
rallies sufficient manhood to meet them with a dignity that bordered
on despair.
As Stella grew calmer she had a growing perception of this truth. He
no longer indulged in vague, half-sincere predictions of disaster. His
aspect was that of a man who was looking at fate.
A cold dread began to creep over her. What was in prospect? Was he,
not Henry Muir, to lose everything? After all, he was her father, her
protector, her only hope for the future. As reason found chance to be
heard, she saw how senseless was her revolt at him. She could not go
on ignoring him any longer. Perhaps it would be best to hear what he
had to say.
This feeling was intensified by her mother, who at last came in and
said, in a weak, half-desperate way, "Stella, there is no use of your
going on in this style any longer.
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