"I think—you may as well give me a thousand dollars," in a rather slow, considering tone.
He looks at her in surprise.
"Well," and she tosses her head, setting the short curls in a flutter, "is a thousand dollars so large a sum?"
"You had better think before spending it," he answers, gravely. "You will then have four thousand left."
"It is my own money."
"I know it is. But, Marcia, you all act as if there was to be no end to it. If you should get all your part, the ten thousand, it would be only a small sum and easily spent. What do you want to do with so much just now?"
"I told you I had bills to pay," she says, pettishly, "and dresses to get." Then she lights upon what seems to her a withering sarcasm. "I have no one to take me to Madame Vauban's and pay no end of bills. If I bought dresses like that when I had no need of them and was not in society——"
"Hush, Marcia!" he commands, "you shall have your money. Spend it as you like," and he strides through the hall. He has been sorely tried with Eugene, who will not interest himself in work, and has been indulging in numerous extravagances; and business has not improved, though everything in the factory goes smoothly.
Violet is in Cecil's room, teaching her some dainty bits of French. She looks up with a bright smile and a blush, the color ripples over her face so quickly. His is so grave. If she only had the courage to go and put her arms about his neck and inquire into the trouble. She is so intensely sympathetic, so generous in all her moods.
He has come home to take her to drive. It is such a soft, Indian-summery day, with the air full of scents and sounds, but all the pleasure has gone out of it now for him.