"Money's an object, of course; but when a fellow—"
"He's not so bad. I like him. Most men do."
"Most men wouldn't have to stand his pawing them about. I like him, too—except for the physical."
"Then you wouldn't marry him?"
"Not unless it was the only way not to starve to death."
"But you'll marry some one."
"Probably; and, probably—so will you."
Her voice was as cool and unflurried as if the words were tossed off without intention.
Both knew that an electric change had come into the mental atmosphere. Of the two, the girl was the less perturbed. Though beneath her feet the floor seemed to heave like the deck of a ship in a storm, she could stand in a jaunty attitude, her hands in her ruby-red pockets, and throw up at its sauciest angle her daintily modeled chin.
With him it was different. He had two main points to consider. In the first place, Bob Collingham had just made an announcement to which he, Wray, was obliged to give some thought. He didn't need to give much to it, because the conclusions were so obvious. Jennie had hit the poor fellow in the eye, and, instead of viewing the case in a common-sense, Gallicized way, he was taking it with crazy American solemnity. There was nothing to it. The Collinghams would never stand for it. It would be a favor to them, as well as to Bob himself, to put the whole thing out of the question.