He thrust out his hand and held his assailant away at arm's length.
Monty burst into tears.
"You don't want it," he moaned; "what's my little girl to you?
You never saw her, and you never will see her in your life." "She is nothing to me of course," Trent answered.

"A moment or so ago her picture was worth less to you than a quarter of a bottle of brandy." "I was mad," Monty moaned.

"She was my own little daughter, God help her!" "I never heard you speak of her before," Trent remarked.
There was a moment's silence.

Then Monty crept out between the posts into the soft darkness, and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.
"I have never told you about her," he said, "because she is not the sort of woman who is spoken of at all to such men as you.

I am no more worthy to be her father than you are to touch the hem of her skirt.