A girl was passing the building at the moment. At her side
walked a gray-haired man--one of those men whom you just
naturally fit into a mental picture of a director's meeting
somewhere along Wall Street.
"Sich langwidge!" cried the girl, with a laugh, covering her
ears with her palms.
The man at her side smiled.
"I can't say that I blame him much, Barbara," he replied.
"It was a very foolish thing for me to bring you down here at
this time. I can't understand what ever possessed me to do it."
"Don't blame yourself, dear," remonstrated the girl, "when
it was all my fault. I begged and begged and begged until you
had to consent, and I'm not sorry either--if nothing happens
to you because of our coming. I couldn't stay in New York
another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and I could just tell
that they were dying to ask questions about Billy and me."
"I can't get it through my head yet, Barbara," said the
man, "why in the world you broke with Billy Mallory. He's
one of the finest young men in New York City today--just
my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only daughter to
marry."
"I tried, Papa," said the girl in a low voice; "but I
couldn't--I just couldn't."
"Was it because--" the man stopped abruptly.
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