"But you would enter San Francisco, Miss Melmotte, under such much better auspices,—if I may be allowed to say so,—as a married lady or as a lady just going to be married."
"Ain't single ladies much thought of in California?"
"It isn't that. Come, Miss Melmotte, you know what I mean."
"Yes, I do."
"Let us go in for life together. We've both done uncommon well. I'm spending 30,000 dollars a year,—at that rate,—in my own house. You'll see it all. If we put them both together,—what's yours and what's mine,—we can put our foot out as far as about any one there, I guess."
"I don't know that I care about putting my foot out. I've seen something of that already, Mr. Fisker. You shouldn't put your foot out farther than you can draw it in again."
"You needn't fear me as to that, Miss Melmotte. I shouldn't be able to touch a dollar of your money. It would be such a triumph to go into Francisco as man and wife."
"I shouldn't think of being married till I had been there a while and looked about me."
"And seen the house! Well;—there's something in that. The house is all there, I can tell you. I'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like the house. But if we were engaged, I could do every thing for you. Where would you be, going into San Francisco all alone? Oh, Miss Melmotte, I do admire you so much!"
I doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy. But the arguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certain extent. "I'll tell you how it must be then," she said.