The Remittance Man by Ambrose Pratt — Read

Dr. Culgin was feeling neglected. He had been alone for two hours in the library, and he hated solitude. By adroitly questioning a footman he ascertained that Marion and her father had quarrelled after he left the dinner table. He thought that the Major had probably censured his daughter for her treatment of himself. That was a pity, for it would make the girl dislike him more than ever. Why did she dislike him? he wondered. He had never done anything that he could remember to offend her. And yet as far back as he could recall they had not been friends. When he was a young man and she a tiny toddler she had often manifested an aversion for him. She would not let him kiss or fondle her, she would barely accept his presents of toys and sweetmeats.

Later, in her short-frocked period, she had been more civil, but if possible, more cool and distant. And later still, when a grown-up young lady--emancipated from both nursery and school, she had continued to prefer any society to his. The riddle was hard for him to read; for, on his part, he had always been fond of her; and ever since that day two years ago, when the Major and he had made a solemn compact for the future, he had quite honestly believed himself in love with the girl whom he regarded as his destined wife. Why, then, did she dislike him? Was it because he was not a pretty man, like that young fop, Horace Keeling? Perhaps. The Doctor writhed in his chair. He believed that he possessed an uncommon--indeed, an extraordinary intellect, but no man has been born of woman who would not rather be loved for the beauties of his person than the beauties of his mind.