Lord Trafford looked at the smooth face questioningly.
“Yes; an easy way, as I take it. You must, my dear Traff, marry money. Well, money—and a most charming girl—are ready to your hand. Two millions of money! Think of it!”
“Two millions!” echoed Trafford, grimly.
“Yes; that is what Miss Chetwynde is worth.”
“Miss Chetwynde!”
“Yes; the girl I introduced you to. You must admit that she is beautiful enough—”
“Beautiful! But—but—”
“But what, my dear Traff? You don’t imagine that the millions are to be obtained without certain disadvantages? Bah! Of course there are disadvantages! But you must swallow them. They will be sugared pills, anyhow! Think of two millions! It will redeem Belfayre; it will restore the house to its old stability; it will be the making of us! Yes, Traff, you will have to marry Miss Chetwynde!”