"I know his name. I attended his mother's wedding. Indeed, why trouble to conceal the fact that it was then I first saw your mother? She was a brides-maid, a girl of fourteen, and already notable as a musical prodigy. I did not meet her again for six years, when her voice had given way, and she began to dabble in art. Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke brought their little son to our wedding. He was an extraordinarily pretty child, and almost attracted more attention than the bride."
Ingersoll spoke in the tone of one who was recalling the past without pain; but his glance followed the last stragglers of the procession to Nizon,--Nizon, with its finely carved Calvary, and its high-perched stone cross bearing the tortured body of the Christ.
"Father dear," cried Yvonne impulsively, "I have made up my mind. You are powerless; but I can act. I will not have you harrowed and wounded at every turn. You and I, together with Lorry and Peridot, saved my mother's life. She must repay us by the only means she possesses,--by conferring the freedom of our own small Paradise."
"Yvonne," he sighed, "some day soon you will be marrying."
Whereat the girl almost laughed. "No matter what happens, that is the last thing I should dream of doing," she said.
"But why? It is the one thing that a girl of your age should have mainly in mind. Even in this small community, you might find a most excellent and chivalric husband----"
"Meaning Lorry," said Yvonne, without hesitation.
"But--I don't care for Lorry--in that way."
"No. Once or twice, perhaps, he has hinted that Barkis was willing. The last time was no later than the day of the wreck."
"You would prefer him, I suppose, to a man of the Rupert Fosdyke type?"
"In no way that I can put into words. He is very courteous, and quite a clever talker, and he tries to make every woman he meets believe that she is the one creature on earth he adores."
"Then poor Lorry, with his chummy slang and abounding good conceit with himself and all the world,--excepting this Mr. Raymond, I take it,--compares but indifferently with the smooth-spoken Rupert?"
"Lorry! He's a man! He's worth a million Fosdykes!"
Ingersoll, well pleased, adopted the sound policy of leaving well enough alone. "Still, you have given me no specific reason for your dislike of Fosdyke," he persisted.