“No—” Beatrice smiled reminiscently; “he certainly isn't.”
“And so he's in deadly earnest. And I'm positive he will make you a model husband.”
“Only think of having to live, all one's life, with a model husband!” shuddered Beatrice hypocritically.
“Be-atrice! And then, it's something to marry a title.”
“That's the worst of it,” remarked Beatrice.
“Any other girl in America would jump at the chance. I do believe, Beatrice, you are hanging back just to be aggravating. And there's another thing, Beatrice. I don't approve of the way this Keith Cameron hangs around you.”
“He doesn't!” denied Beatrice, in an altogether different tone. “Why, mama!”
“I don't approve of flirting, Beatrice, and you know it. The way you gadded around over the hills with him—a perfect stranger—was disgraceful; perfectly disgraceful. You don't know any thing about the fellow, whether he's a fit companion or not—a wild, uncouth cowboy—”
“He graduated from Yale, a year after Dick. And he was halfback, too.”
“That doesn't signify,” said her mother, “a particle. I know Miss Hayes was dreadfully shocked to see you come riding up with him, and Sir Redmond forced to go with Richard, or ride alone.”