To marry Sprudell meant immunity from freezing on street corners, from mental and physical exhaustion, from the rebuffs which were a part of her work and which hurt far worse than anyone guessed because she could never regard them as impersonal. Women were making such exchanges every day and with less excuse—for luxury or position merely—but could she do it?
Must she grow into an old woman without a single romance in her life? That much seemed every woman’s right. What had she done that the Fates should “have it in for her” like this? She clenched her hands under the shelter of the tablecloth. This thing she had made up her mind to do seemed such a horrid, sordid, vulgar end to youth and sentiment.
Sprudell meanwhile was revolving in his mind the best method of imparting effectively and dramatically the news which was burdening him. He considered beginning with a Latin quotation from his Vest-Pocket Manual—“Labor omnia vincit”—or something like that—but ended, when he felt the right moment had arrived, by stating the fact bluntly and abruptly:
“I’m going to be as rich as Crœsus.”
Helen looked up, to see his red lower lip trembling with excitement.
“My dear,” solemnly, “I shall have fabulous wealth.”
Undoubtedly he was in earnest. She could see that from the intensity shining in his eyes. Wonderingly she took the pamphlet which he withdrew from its envelope and passed to her, watching her face eagerly as she read.
PROSPECTUS OF THE BITTER ROOT
PLACER MINING COMPANY
proclaimed the outside page, and the frontispiece contained a picture of seven large mules staggering up a mountain trail under a load of bullion protected by guards carrying rifles with eight-foot barrels.