"Think it out, Dorothy," he said in his frankest, kindliest way. "You'll
see I'm right."

"No," she said.

"No? What does that mean?"

"I've an instinct against it," replied she. "I'd rather father and I
kept on as we are."

"But that's impossible. You've no right to live in this small, cramping
way. You must broaden out and give _him_ room to grow. . . . Isn't that
sensible?"

"It sounds so," she admitted. "But--" She gazed round helplessly--"I'm
afraid!"

"Afraid of what?"

"I don't know."

"Then don't bother about it."

"I'll have to be very--careful," she said thoughtfully.

"As you please," replied he. "Only, don't live and think on a
ten-dollar-a-week basis. That isn't the way to get on."

He never again brought up the matter in direct form. But most of his
conversation was indirect and more or less subtle suggestions as to ways