Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. And he could not return this love. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Besides this, the door was crossed and recrossed by iron bars, clenched by broad-headed nails. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock. “I go to private school right now.
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