She recalled the loud, domineering, dogmatic man, insisting, morning and night, that as soon as he was rich enough he would be all that he wanted to be--the self-important, patronizing, cold, and unsympathetic head of the family.

Where was he?
Who was this that sat in the parlor, in his chair, no longer pompous and fierce, but bowed, gray, drumming on his thin knees with lean white fingers?
"Father!" exclaimed Fanny, involuntarily, and terrified.
The old man turned his head toward her.

The calm, hard eyes looked into hers.

There was no expression of surprise, or indignation, or forgiveness--nothing but a placid abstraction and vagueness.
"Father!" Fanny repeated, rising, and half moving toward him.
His head turned back again--his eyes looked at the wall--and she heard only the words, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" As Fanny sank back into her chair, pale and appalled, May took her hand and began to talk with her in a low, murmuring tone.

The others fell into a fragmentary conversation, constantly recurring with their eyes to Mr.
Newt.