To-night she laughed at it.

Ah, Sir George! Pitiable old man! While your daughter laughs, you sigh and groan and moan, and your heart aches with pain and impotent rage.

Even drink fails to bring comfort to you.

I say impotent rage, because Dorothy is out of your reach, and as surely as the sun rises in the east she is lost to you forever.

The years of protection and tender love which you have given to her go for nothing.