THE FINANCIER 
—their dainty, lovely triangular grand piano in gold and 
painted pink-and-blue. Why couldn't they have things 
like that? Her father was unquestionably a dozen times 
as wealthy. But no, her father, whom she loved dearly, 
was of the old school. He was just what people charged 
him with being, a rough Irish contractor. He might be 
rich. She flared up a little at the injustice of things— 
why couldn't he have been rich and refined, too? Then 
they could have—but, oh, what was the use complaining? 
They would never get anywhere with her father and 
mother in charge. She would just have to wait. Mar- 
riage was the answer—the right marriage. But who was 
she to marry? 
"You surely are not going to go on fighting about that 
now," pleaded Mrs. Butler, as strong and patient as fate 
itself. She knew where Aileen's trouble lay. 
"But, anyhow, we might have the house done over," 
whispered Norah to her mother. 
"Hush, now. In good time. Wait. We'll fix it all 
up some day, sure. You run to your lessons now. You've 
had enough." 
Norah arose and left. 
Aileen subsided. What was the use? Her father was 
simply stubborn and impossible. And yet he was nice, 
too. 
"Come now," he said, after they had left the table, 
"play me somethin' on the piano, somethin' nice." He 
wanted showy, clattery things which exhibited his daugh- 
ter's skill and muscular ability and left him wondering 
how she did it. That was what education was for—to 
enable her to play these very difficult things quickly and 
forcefully. The significance of it? Well, there wasn't 
any to him, and Aileen knew that also. Her taste was 
so much better. "And you can have a new piano any 
time you like. Go and see about it. This looks pretty 
good to me; but if you don't want it, all right." 
Aileen squeezed his arm. What was the use of arguing 
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