“No, you are right there; she seems like one stupefied by a blow—and Ivon is not much better. He was wild as a hawk that night. Only think of it—mother and son; but it serves him right. I have no compassion for him, and all but engaged to me.”
“But if she marries this Ross, all will be at an end with Mr. Ivon.”
“No, it won’t. He thinks her the loveliest, the most beautiful and accomplished creature in the world. Being married won’t hurt her with him. He will never think any one fit to untie her shoes. I want him to despise her—hate her. I want to break up this match, which is killing your poor mistress.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know. What is the good of being rich when the thing you want most can’t be got for money. Oh, if I had that girl under my feet how I would stamp her down!”
Ellen Post seated herself by the window, and fell into thought. She was a sharp, even-tempered schemer, who saw a chance of killing several birds with one stone, if it only could be brought about. Her ideas were crude as yet, but she saw a gleam of daylight through them.
“Five thousand dollars! Did you say that, Miss Spicer?”
“I said five thousand dollars. I don’t know what I said, but I’d give even that. But what is the good?”
“And you mean it?”
“Mean it? No, I don’t mean it, for the thing isn’t possible. If it were I wouldn’t hesitate a moment.”