"You're probably just as honest in your ideas as I am in mine,"
Lorelei told her. "I sha'n't allow you to want for--"

"I should hope not, since you're to blame for Peter's condition--
Oh, you know you are! If you hadn't wanted a career he'd still be
in Vale, a strong, healthy man instead of a cripple."

"I didn't want a career," Lorelei denied with heat. "And father
almost HAD to leave Vale."

"Nothing of the sort. He was a big man there. 'Had to leave Vale,'
eh? So you've turned against your own blood, and disparage your
father--Anyhow, he was hurt while he was working to give you a
start, and now he's helpless. Who waits on him? I do. If I
believed in prayers I'd pray that you may never have a child to
disappoint you as you've disappointed him and me." Her voice
quavered as she tried for pathos, but her fury was still too fresh
to be entirely restrained, and it scalded her like vitriol. "If
Bob Wharton was half a man he'd step aside; but of course he won't
until he's had enough of your beauty. That's all he wants, your
beauty--and you'll be fool enough to let him have it FOR NOTHING.
I'm sure I wish you joy with the selfish wretch and with your new-
fangled ideas of wifely devotion. This will kill Peter. You'll
have his death on your conscience. Think that over, now that
you're so fond of thinking. Ten thousand dollars right now would
save his life. Think that over, too, when your own father is dead
and gone."

White with anger, sick with disappointment, Mrs. Knight whisked