"I suppose you miss both of your sisters," he remarks, with a touch of sympathy. "You are learning now what loneliness is. Although there is your brother's wife——"
"A child, a mere child, who can thrum a little on the piano and dress dolls for Cecil. I never could understand why Floyd married her."
"There was the fortune," suggests Mr. Wilmarth.
"Oh, Floyd did not care for that! You see he has had it all tied up so that he cannot touch it."
"Those who tie can sometimes untie," he answers, dryly.
"No. I have always thought there was some silly sentiment, or perhaps Mr. St. Vincent asked it of him," she cries, with sudden inspiration, "for Floyd could have rewarded her for saving the child's life."
Evidently the marriage is not pleasing to Miss Marcia. That scores one in her favor as a good ally. Through Eugene he has learned that it was generally unsatisfactory, but he has fancied Marcia just the kind to be caught by a sweet young girl.
He has been considering the point in all its bearings these few days,—whether he really wants to be bothered with a wife, only he need not allow the wife to bother, and whether it would be better to win her openly or not. If the house at the park were her father's, but it is Floyd Grandon's, and he might some day be dismissed. He feels intuitively that Grandon would oppose the marriage from the under-current of enmity between. Of course he could persuade Marcia to secret meetings and a marriage. Would it not be more of a triumph if the whole matter were kept a secret?
He draws from Marcia, with the requisite astuteness, and it does not need much, the state of affairs and her own position at home. She would be ready enough to change it, that he sees. With a touch of secret elation he knows he could make this woman worship him like a bond slave while the bewilderment lasted. He has never been so worshipped. He has known of several women who would have married him, but it would have been for a home and a protector. He has not been sufficiently unfortunate to inspire any one with that profound and tender pity that women do sometimes give to deformity or accident; he has no particular gifts or genius to win a heart, he is now quite to middle life and cannot reasonably expect to grow handsomer. Under any circumstances he could hardly hope to marry into a family like that of the Grandons, and though he shall not be friends with a single member, still, it will gratify his pride, and Floyd Grandon must be more considerate of his business interests.
All these things run through his mind as he talks to her. She is rather coquettish and vain and silly,—his eyes are pitilessly clear,—and she may afford him some amusement when her unreasoning adoration ends. He sees the fact that he is attracted towards her, moves her curiously. If he is to take a wife he will not have her cold and selfishly considerate, but quaff the full cup of adoration at first, even if it does turn to ashes and dust afterward.