"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the St. Maurs, of Maryland."
"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?"
"Why, I never thought of such a thing."
"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude to your cousin, and all that kind of thing—then beg leave to call and pay respects," etc., etc.
John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office.
That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, high-bred little lady, with
"Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor,
Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender,
Lips like fragrant posy,"
and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the happiness of others.
But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter.
"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want to consult you, dear, about a visitor."