"I don't blame her," said Grace cynically, as she returned the bow of another arrival. "It must be dreadful to be a mere 'Mrs. Green' or 'Mrs. Brown.' I couldn't live with any ordinary man—a mere business man whose one thought was figures and profits. My ideal is an English peer or an Italian count—preferably the latter. They are less expensive. English dukes, they say, drink hard and beat their wives. It would be nice to be addressed as 'Duchess,' or 'Comtesse.'"
Mrs. Stuart looked approvingly at her protégée.
"I'm glad to see you're so practical, my dear."
"Why not? This is a practical age," laughed Grace.
"Well, there's Prince Sergius. He's only waiting the word. Why don't you marry him and be a princess—only two lives removed from a throne? Every woman in America would envy you."
Grace frowned.
"And I—would despise myself?" she answered. "Every one knows his reputation. It's my money he wants, that's all. I haven't yet sunk so low as to purchase a titled husband at the price of my self-respect. Besides, I could not endure a tie that would be entirely loveless, wholly mercenary. I hope I have some ideals; some sentiment left."
"Were you ever in love?" persisted her companion.
"I suppose I was, like most girls. When I first left school I saw boys I liked. All girls are silly at some period of their life. But I survived those early attachments. I am still heart-whole. I never see nowadays a man with whom I could fall in love. To me, they all seem conceited and selfish. Of course I shall have to marry one day or other, but I'm afraid it will be what the French call a mariage de convenance.
"Or, in plain Yankee, marriage with an eye to the main chance," rejoined Mrs. Stuart. "But you don't have to marry for money, child. You are rich."