'Uncle Howard,' she said, 'I think you've done very wrong not to tell me this before. I had a right to know, and I could have helped it. My father loves his business, but he loves me better. It's true, as I say, he's just doing it as a sort of problem. He doesn't see the suffering he causes, and he doesn't really believe there is any. Of course he knows that some people lose when he gains, but he thinks that they go into it with their eyes open, and that they must accept the chances of war. He's exactly as good a man as either of you.' And then, as a sudden recollection flashed across her, she whirled about toward Sybert, her glance divided between indignation and contempt. 'And you called me the "Wheat Princess" before every one in Paul Dessart's studio. You knew that it wasn't my fault; you knew that I didn't even know about the trouble, and you laughed when I told the story of the Vivalanti ghost.'
Her voice broke slightly, and, turning her back, she drew a piece of paper toward her on the table and began to write.
'There,' she said, holding out a scrawled sheet toward her uncle. 'There is a cablegram. Please see that it is sent immediately.'
Copley ran his eyes over it in silence, and his mouth twitched involuntarily into a smile.
'Well, Marcia, I'll see that it goes. I don't know--it may do some good, after all.' He paused awkwardly a moment and held out his hand. 'Am I forgiven?' he asked. 'I shouldn't have said anything against your father; but he's my brother, remember, and while I abuse him myself I wouldn't let an outsider do it. You are right; he doesn't know what he is doing. You must forget what I said. I have thought about it too much. Every one in Italy believes that I have an interest in the deal; and when I am doing my best to help things along, it is a little hard, you know, to be accused--by the very people I am giving to--of being the cause of their distress.'
'Yes, Uncle Howard, I understand; I don't blame you,' she returned, with a note of weariness in her voice; 'but--papa is really the kindest man in the world.'
'Ah, Marcia, a very kind-hearted man nowadays can do a great deal of harm by telegraph without having to witness the results.'
Sybert crossed the room toward her with a curious deep look in his eyes. He half held out his hand, but Marcia turned away without appearing to notice, and picking up her uncle's cheque-book from the table, she tore out a leaf and scrawled across the face.