``That is very true,'' ejaculated Sanders; ``she always seemed tractable and open to reason in all questions of love and courting. I can recall several instances where I have set her right by my estimation of men, and invariably she has accepted my views.''
``And mine until now,'' said the father, and then he recounted his experience of the night before. ``I had hoped she would not fall in love, but be a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am dismayed at the prospect before me.''
Then the old man mused: ``In the chrysalis state of girlhood, a parent arranges all the details of his daughter's future; when and whom she shall marry.
`I shall not allow her to fall in love until she is twenty-three,' says the fond parent. `I shall not allow her to marry until she is twenty-six,' says the fond parent. `The man she marries will be the one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,' concludes the fond parent.''
Deluded parent! false prophet! The anarchist, Love, steps in and disdains all laws, rules and regulations. When finally the father confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, ``Well, what are you going to do about it?''
And then tears, forgiveness, complete capitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever afterwards.
``We must find some means to end this attachment. A union between a musician and my daughter would be most mortifying to me. Some plan must be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she is impatient of restraint and will not brook opposition.''
``Are you confident she really loves this violinist?''
``She confessed as much to me,'' said the perturbed banker.
Old Sanders tapped with both hands on his shining cranium and asked, ``Are you confident he loves her?''
``No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she believes him. A man who fiddles for money is not likely to ignore an opportunity to angle for the same commodity,'' and the banker, with a look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair.
``Does she know that you do not approve of this man?''
``I told her that I desired the musician's visits to cease.''
``And her answer?''
``She said she would obey me if I could name one reasonable objection to the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the impossibility of such a contingency, added, `But you can not.' ''
``Yes, but you must,'' said Sanders.
``Mildred is strangely constituted. If she loves this man, her love can be more deadly to the choice of her heart than her hate to one she abhors. The impatience of restraint you speak of and her very inability to brook opposition can be turned to good account now.''
And old Sanders again tapped in the rhythm of a dirge on his parchment-bound cranium.
``Your plan?'' eagerly asked the father, whose confidence in his secretary was absolute.
``I would like to study them together.
Your position will be stronger with Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his aspirations; bring us together at your house some evening, and if I can not enter a wedge of discontent, then they are not as others.''
***
Mildred was delighted when her father told her on his return in the evening that he was anxious to meet Signor Diotti, and suggested a dinner party within a few days. He said he would invite Mr. Sanders, as that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music.
