"
Burnamy sat dumb; and his head which he had lifted indignantly when the
question was of Stoller, began to sink.
The general went on. "You ask me to give you my daughter when you haven't
money enough to keep her in gowns; you ask me to give her to a
stranger--"
"Not quite a stranger, General Triscoe," Burnamy protested. "You have
known me for three months at least, and any one who knows me in Chicago
will tell you--"
"A stranger, and worse than a stranger," the general continued, so
pleased with the logical perfection of his position that he almost
smiled, and certainly softened toward Burnamy. "It isn't a question of
liking you, Mr. Burnamy, but of knowing you; my daughter likes you; so do
the Marches; so does everybody who has met you. I like you myself. You've
done me personally a thousand kindnesses. But I know very little of you,
in spite of our three months' acquaintance; and that little is--But you
shall judge for yourself! You were in the confidential employ of a man
who trusted you, and you let him betray himself."
"I did. I don't excuse it. The thought of it burns like fire. But it
wasn't done maliciously; it wasn't done falsely; it was done
inconsiderately; and when it was done, it seemed irrevocable.
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