blow home. What I appeal to you, as a father, at present to do"—he continued broadly to demonstrate—"is to nerve my arm. I look to you to see me through."
"Through what, then?"
"Through this most important transaction. Through the speculation of which you've been the barely dissimulated subject. I've brought you here to receive an impression, and I've brought you, even more, to make one."
The girl turned honestly flat. "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."
"But, father," she asked in evident anguish—"to what point?"
"The point where a gentleman has to."
Miss Prodmore faltered. "Go down on his knees?"
Her father considered. "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."
