"She might even have had new pictures and done away with the old ones," observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble attempt at satire. His wife darted a keen look at him, but smiled a little too. She was not without a sense of humor.
"Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works of art better than many a so-called connoisseur. I won't have you make fun of her. Poor girl! She did speculate on Bruce-Errington,--you know he was very attentive to her, at that ball I gave just before he went off to Norway."
"He certainly seemed rather amused by her," said Mr. Marvelle. "Did she take it to heart when she heard he was married?"
"I should think not," replied Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "She has too much sense. She merely said, 'All right! I must stick to Masherville!'"
Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. "Admirable,--admirable!" he murmured, with a soft little laugh, "A very clever girl--a very bright creature! And really there are worse fellows than Masherville! The title is old."
"Yes, the title is all very well," retorted his wife--"but there's no money--or at least very little."
"Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit?" suggested Mr. Marvelle, in a tone of meek inquiry.
"An American woman never has sufficient," declared Mrs. Marvelle. "You know that as well as I do. And poor dear Mrs. Van Clupp has so set her heart on a really brilliant match for her girl--and I had positively promised she should have Bruce-Errington. It is really too bad!" And Mrs. Marvelle paced the room with a stately, sweeping movement, pausing every now and then to glance at herself approvingly in the mirror above the chimney-piece, while her husband resumed his perusal of the Times. By-and-by she said abruptly-"Montague!"
Mr. Marvelle dropped his paper with an alarmed air.
"My dear!"
"I shall go to Clara Winsleigh this morning--and see what she means to do in the matter. Poor Clara! She must be disgusted at the whole affair!"
"She had rather a liking for Errington, hadn't she?" inquired Mr. Marvelle, folding up the Times in a neat parcel, preparatory to taking it with him in order to read it in peace on his way to the Law Courts.
"Liking? Well!" And Mrs. Marvelle, looking at herself once more in the glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of Honiton lace about her massive throat,--"It was a little more than liking--though, of course, her feelings were perfectly proper, and all that sort of thing,--at least, I suppose they were! She had a great friendship for him,--one of those emotional, perfectly spiritual and innocent attachments, I believe, which are so rare in this wicked world." Mrs. Marvelle sighed, then suddenly becoming practical again, she continued. "Yes, I shall go there and stop to luncheon, and talk this thing over. Then I'll drive on to the Van Clupps, and bring Marcia home to dinner. I suppose you don't object?"