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58
MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE
planted in fertile soil, soon bloomed into a quarrel. Simon Ingot, a fanatic on family, niggardly of acquaintances who "were not born," a man who spelled "right" race, was infuriated at the very notion of his daughter's infatuation for a play-actor. He would not have been more annoyed if she had fallen in love with his butler. That there could
A FOOLISH THING FOR A GIRL TO BE READ-IN^"
be birth, pride and worth across the footlights had certainly not occurred to him. But a small modicum of common sense told him that to precipitate matters would be fatal. Contrariness was a trait in his daughter 's character that had sent her, after strict parental warnings to the contrary, straight to dabble in the very danger denied her. She had, as a consequence, nearly been drowned, burned alive and run over by a coach and four before experience had taught her wisdom. However, Ingot's wrath
did not have to smoulder long in concealment. One morning, soon after the theater party, he came on Ada buried to the hilt, so to speak, in a volume of Shakespeare's tragedies, young breast heaving, cheeks pale and red by turn. Trying to keep his temper, the father took possession of the book.
"A foolish thing for a girl to be reading," he reproved. "Better your fancy-work or some other improving occupation." "Fancy-work does not reach the heart, father," named the girl. "Didn't the minister himself quote Shakespeare last Sunday?"
"Is that your reason for reading it, child?"
Ada hung her head. Thru her soft hair her cheeks burned crimson. Then, with a sudden gallant gesture, she looked straight into her father's eyes. "No, sir," she said deliberately; "I heard David Garrick at the theater the other
night "
"I thought as much!" shouted Ingot, flinging the book across the room. "A cursed pasteboard man — a scented, bewigged fool — a common, cowardly knave of a play-actor ! Mind my words, young woman, I'll have no such disgraceful folly going on in my house — d'you dare to tell me that you're in love with him?"
Love feeds on remonstrance. What had begun in a girl's extravagant admiration for a handsome face and golden voice, suddenly loomed into more serious proportions. It was as much anger against her father as it was any tenderer emotion that put the conviction into Ada's voice as she retorted:
"You cant forbid the wind to blow, father ; no more can you refuse to let me love whom I choose."
Before he could reply, the door slammed across her departure. Ingot furrowed his brows some moments in