Beatrice nodded. With a queer feeling of repulsion she patted her
fiancé's cheek with her soft hand and whispered a word of comfort to
him.

"Buck up, old boy. It won't be half as bad as you think. Nobody is
going to blame you."

They were shown out by the valet.

"You don't want to be hard on Bromfield, honey," Whitford told his
daughter after they had reëntered their car. "He's a parlor man.
That's the way he's been brought up. Never did a hard day's work in
his life. Everything made easy for him. If he'd ever ridden out a
blizzard like Clay or stuck it out in a mine for a week without food
after a cave-in, he wouldn't balk on the job before him. But he's
soft. And he's afraid of his reputation. That's natural, I suppose."

Beatrice knew he was talking to save her feelings. "You don't need to
make excuses for him, Dad," she answered gently, with a wry smile.
"I've got to give up. I don't think I can go through with it."

"You mean--marry him?"

"Yes." She added, with a flare of passionate scorn of herself: "I
deserve what I've got. I knew all the time I didn't love him. It was
sheer selfishness in me to accept him. I wanted what he had to give
me."

Her father drew a deep breath of relief. "I'm glad you see that, Bee.