"'Tain't pretty, but what's in a name?" said Million, as she held out her wrist for me to insert the microscopic pearl buttons into the fairy-silk loops that fastened her cuffs. "Who is he?"
"He's your cousin," I told her.
And, of course, as I expected, it was some time before I was able to get my young mistress to believe this.
"You're sure," she said at last, "that he's not having us on?"
"I don't think so," I said rather sadly, for I thought again of what that cousinship might mean—the loss of all Miss Million's fortune! However, I'd leave that aspect of it for the present. Let him explain that. They hadn't been introduced yet.
I said: "He's extremely anxious to meet you, let me tell you. He thought of nothing else all the time that he was talking to me. Be as nice to him as you can, won't you?"
"Well, I don't see why I should go out of my way," demurred Million exasperatingly. I had hoped that she might appeal to the chivalrous side of the young American's nature; appeal to it so that he might give up his idea of fighting for his rights—if they are his rights! But if Million is going to put her back up and become independent—well, they'll fight. And there'll be a catastrophe, and the downfall of Million's prosperity, and general wretchedness for Miss Million and her maid—oh, dear, what a prospect!
I began to coax her.
"Oh, yes, be nice. He's rather a dear, this cousin of yours. And he was so absurdly pleased, do you know, to hear that you had black hair. He admires brunettes."
"Very kind of him," said Million quite flippantly. "You told him, I suppose, about me bein' dark."