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“The owner of this property?” Cora blinked. Her father’s tone showed his reserves. “That’s what it depends on you to make him!” “On me?” the girl gasped. “He came into it three months ago by the death of his great-uncle, who had lived to ninety-three, but who, having quarrelled mortally with his father, had always refused to receive either sire or son.” “But now, at least, doesn’t he live here?” “So little, that he comes here today for the very first time. I’ve some business to discuss with him that can best be discussed on this spot; and it’s a vital part of that business that you too should take pains to make him welcome.”
Miss Prodmore failed to ignite. “In his own house?” “That it’s not his own house is just the point I seek to make! The way I look at it is that it’s my house! The way I look at it even, my dear, is that it’s our house. The whole thing is mortgaged, as it stands, for every penny of its value.” Cora jumped. “Of holding the mortgages?” He caught her with a smile of approval. “You keep up with me better than I hoped. I hold every scrap of paper.”
“Are you going to be very hard?” she asked after a moment. “Hard with you?” “No—that doesn’t matter. Hard with the Captain.” “Hard is a stupid, shuffling term. What do you mean by it?” “I think I understand you, papa, enough to gather that you’ve got, as usual, a striking advantage.” “As usual, I have scored; but my advantage won’t be striking perhaps till I have sent the blow home. What I appeal to you, as a father, at present to do, is to nerve my arm. I look to you to see me through.”
“Through this most important transaction. I’ve brought you here to receive an impression, and I’ve brought you, even more, to make one.” “But on whom?” “On me, to begin with—by not being a fool. And then, Miss, on him.” Erect, but as if paralysed, she had the air of facing the worst. “On Captain Yule?” “By bringing him to the point.” “To what point?” “The point where a gentleman has to.” Miss Prodmore faltered. “Go down on his knees?” “No—they don’t do that now.” “What do they do?” Mr. Prodmore carried his eyes with a certain sustained majesty to a remote point. “He will know himself.”
“Oh, no, indeed, he won’t,” the girl cried; “they don’t ever!” “Then the sooner they learn—whoever teaches ’em!—the better: the better I mean in particular for the master of this house. I’ll guarantee that he shall understand that, for I shall do my part.” She looked at him as if his part were really to be hated. “But how on earth, sir, can I ever do mine? To begin with, you know, I’ve never even seen him.”
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