New York meanwhile, in its effeminateness, had forgotten the snow, and was listening to the sun.  And the day after the return from Aiken, as Roland, in accordance with an agreement of which the locus sigilli had a kiss for token, went down to knock at Mr. Dunellen’s office door, the sky was as fair as it had been in the South.  Yet to him it was unobtrusive.  His mind was occupied with fancies that had a birth, a little span of life, and which in passing away were succeeded by others as ephemeral as themselves ­thoughts about nothing at all that came and went unnoticed:  a man he had met in Corfu, and whom a face in the street recalled; the glisten of silk in a window that took him back to Japan; ­but beneath them was a purpose settled and dominant, a resolution to trick Fate and outwit it ­one which, during the journey from Aiken, had so possessed him that, in attending to the wants of Mrs. Metuchen or in ministering to Justine, at times he had been quasi-somnambulistic, at others wholly vague.  But now, as he gave his card to an office-boy, to all outward intent he was confident and at ease; he picked up a paper and affected to lose himself in its columns.  Presently the boy returned, and he was ushered into the room which he had previously visited.  On this occasion Mr. Dunellen was not seated, but standing, his back to the door.  As Roland entered he turned, and the young man stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

To his contentment, and a little also to his surprise, in answer to that outstretched hand Honest Paul extended his, and Roland had the pleasure of holding three apparently docile fingers in his own; but in a moment they withdrew themselves, and he felt called upon to speak.

“Mr. Dunellen,” he began, with that confident air a creditor has who comes to claim his due, “Mr. Dunellen, I have ventured to interrupt you again.  And again I am a suppliant.  But this time it is of your daughter, not of my father, that ­”

He hesitated, and well he might.  Mr. Dunellen, who had remained standing, and who in so doing had prevented Roland from sitting down, now assumed the suspicious appearance of one who detects an unpleasant smell; his features contracted, and for no other reason, apparently, than that of intimidating the suppliant in his prayer.

But Roland was not to be abashed; he recovered himself, and continued glibly enough:  “The matter is this.  I am sincerely attached to your daughter, and I am come to ask your consent to our marriage.”

“That is the purpose of your visit, is it?”

“It is.”

“My daughter is aware of it, I suppose?”

“She is.”

“And she consented, did she?”

“Perfectly.”

“H’m!  My daughter has made a mistake.  I told her as much last night.  There can be no question of marriage.  You will do me the favor to let the matter drop.”

“I am hot a rich man, Mr. Dunellen, but ­”

“So I am informed.  But that has nothing to do with it.  There are other things that I take into consideration, and in view of them I insist that this matter be dropped.”

“Mr. Dunellen, I love your daughter; I have reason to believe that she cares for me.  We became engaged a few days ago.  I came here now to ask your consent.  If you refuse it, I have at least the right to ask what your objection is.”

“Rather unnecessary, don’t you think?”

“I cannot imagine, sir, what you mean.”  And Roland, holding himself unaffectedly straight, without the symptom of a pose, looked the old man in the eyes.

That look Mr. Dunellen returned.  “Take a seat,” he said; and, motioning Roland to a chair, he sat down himself.

“All this is needless,” he announced; “but since you are anxious for an explanation, I will give it.  In the first place, when you were at my house you remember that my nephew Dr. Thorold happened in.  The other day I mentioned to him that you were at Aiken.  He then informed me of a certain incident in your career, one which you have not forgotten, and of which I do not care to speak.  I may say, however, that it utterly precludes the possibility of any further intercourse between my daughter and yourself.”

And the old man, still gazing at his guest, added:  “This explanation should, it seems to me, suffice.”  But he made no attempt to rise, or to signify that the interview was at an end, and Roland, who was shrewd, interpreted this in his own favor.  “He is not altogether positive,” he reflected, “but he can be so to-morrow,” and with a show of shame that did him credit he hung his head.

“I had thought the incident to which you refer was forgotten,” he murmured, penitently enough.

“Forgotten?  Do you suppose Thorold forgets?  Do you suppose any man could forget a thing like that ­a sister’s death, a mother’s insanity?  No, you did not think it was forgotten.  What you thought was this:  you thought that my nephew would hesitate to speak; and indeed even to me for ten years he has kept silent.  But now ­there, you need not fear a criminal charge.  It was that you feared once, I understand, and it was on that account you went abroad.  At this date, of course, no proof is possible; and, even were it otherwise, a charge would not be brought.  Linen of that kind is better washed at home.”

“Mr. Dunellen, if you could know!  It is the regret of my life.”

“That I can believe; but I believe also that our natures never vary.  We may mould and shape them to our uses, but beneath the surface they remain unchanged.  I say this parenthetically.  In regard to this incident there are in one particular certain excuses you might allege ­youth for instance, inexperience, common attraction, love even.  If you did, I could enter into them.  I have been young myself, and I have no wish to imply that through the temptations of youth I passed unscathed.  The man who asserts he has reminds me of the horseman who declares he has never been thrown.  Nor because your victim happened to be my niece am I actuated by retrospective indignation.  I am too old for that; and, moreover, the incident is too stale.  No:  my reason for forbidding my daughter to receive you, as I have done, is this:  the man that can seduce a girl, and then, to conceal the effect, permit her to be butchered by a quack, especially when he could have protected her by marriage ­that man, Mr. Mistrial, I tell you very plainly, is a scoundrel, and being a scoundrel will never be anything else.”  And as Honest Paul made this assertion he stood up and nodded affirmatively at his guest.

“You are very hard, Mr. Dunellen.”

“I may be, but so is justice.”

“If I could tell you all.  It was so sudden, so unpremeditated even, at the first idea of a possibility of a catastrophe I lost my head.”

“It was your honor you lost.”

“Yes, and for years I have tried to recover it.”

“That I am glad to learn, and I hope you have succeeded; but ­”

“And will you not aid me?”

“In my sight you can never appear an honest man.”

At this reproach, Roland, who had sat like Abjection, one hand supporting his head, his eyes lowered and his body bent, sprang to his feet.

“There are several forms of honesty,” he exclaimed, “and frankness I believe is counted among them.  That you evidently possess.  Let me emulate you in it.  I intend that your daughter shall be my wife.  If you don’t care to come to the wedding your presence can be dispensed with.”  And without any show of anger, but with an inclination of the head that was insolent in its deference, he picked up his hat and left the room.

Presently he found himself in the street.  “Who is ever as stupid as a wise man?” he queried, and laughed a little to himself ­“unless” ­and he fell to wondering whether Dunellen could have told his daughter all.  On the corner a cab was loitering; he hailed and entered it.  A little later he was ringing at the door of Honest Paul’s abode.

Yes, Miss Dunellen was at home.  And as the servant drew the portiere to the drawing-room aside, Roland was visited by that emotion the gambler knows who waits the turning of a card.  Another second, and the expression of the girl’s face would tell him what the future held.  The drawing-room, however, happened to be untenanted, and as he paced its spacious splendors he still wondered was she or was she not informed.  In a corner was a landscape signed Courbet ­a green ravine shut down by bluest sky.  The coloring was so true, it jarred.  In another was a statue ­a cloaked and hooded figure of Death supporting a naked girl.  As he contemplated it, he heard the tinkle of the portiere rings.  It was she, he knew; he turned, and at once his heart gave an exultant throb; in her eyes was an invitation; he put his arms about her, and for a moment held her so.

She does not know, he told himself, and to her he murmured, “I have come to say good-bye.”

“Wait, Roland.”  She led him to a seat.  “Wait; I spoke to father last night; he has some objection ­”

“I told you I was poor ­”

“It is that, I suppose; he did not say ­”

“He will never consent, unless ­”

“There, Roland.  I know him best.”  She closed her eyes, and as he gazed at her it seemed to him she had done so to shut some memory out.  “It is money with him always; you do not know ­” And between her parted lips she drew a breath he heard.  “Last night he told me I must never see you again.  Hitherto his will has ruled:  it is my turn to-day.”

With this there came a splendor to her he had never marked before; she looked defiant, and resolute as well.  There was strength in her face, and beauty too.

“He is unjust,” she added.  “It was my duty to tell him, and there my duty ends.  I am not a school-girl.  I know my mind; better, perhaps, than he knows his own.  I have obeyed him always.  It is easy to obey, but now I will act for myself.”

“He will never give his consent,” Roland repeated.

“He may keep it, then.”

Within her something seemed to rankle; and as Roland, mindful of the slightest change in her expression, detected this, he wondered what it could portend.

“Sweetheart,” he ventured, “I have these two arms; they are all in all for you.”

At this Justine awoke at once.  “If I did not know it ­feel it; if I were not sure of it, do you think I would speak to you as I do?  No, Roland.  I have something of my own; when we are married, believe me, his consent will come at once.”

“It is not his consent I want ­you know that; it is yours.”

“You have it, Roland; I gave it you among the pines.”

“Where is your hat, then?  Let us go.”

He caught her to him again, then suffered her to leave the room.  And as the portiere which he had drawn that she might pass fell back into its former folds, for a moment he stood perplexed.  Somewhere a screw was loose, he could have sworn.  But where?  Could it be that Honest Paul was supporting a separate establishment? or did Justine think he wished to mate her to some plutocrat of his choice?  The first supposition was manifestly absurd; the second troubled him so little that he turned and occupied himself with the naked girl swooning in the arms of Death.

“I am ready, Roland.”  It was Justine, bonneted and veiled, buttoning her glove.

“I have a cab,” he answered, and followed her to the door.