She
seemed to have inherited her mother's flesh.
He pushed her away roughly, and she took this movement for a refusal.
Her face grew sad, tears came to her eyes, and her father repented his
brusqueness. He was surprised at her constant requests for money. What
did she want it for? He recalled the wedding-presents, that princely
abundance of clothes and jewels which had been on exhibition in this
very room. What did she need? But Milita looked at her father in
astonishment. More than a year had gone by since then. It was clear
enough that her father was ignorant in such matters. Was she going to
wear the same gowns, the same hats, the same ornaments for an endless
length of time, more than twelve months? Horrible! That was too
commonplace. And overcome at the thought of such a monstrosity, she
began to shed her tender tears to the great disturbance of the master.
"There, there, Milita, there's no use in crying. What do you want?
Money? I'll send you all you need to-morrow. I haven't much at the
house. I shall have to get it at the bank--operations you don't
understand."
But Milita, encouraged by her victory, insisted on her request with
desperate obstinacy. He was deceiving her; he would not remember it the
next day; she knew her father. Besides, she needed the money at
once,--her honor was at stake (she declared it seriously) if her friends
discovered that she was in debt.
"This very minute, papa. Don't be horrid. Don't amuse yourself by making
me worry.
Pages:
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347