“Leonie, that is ridiculous,” said Mr. Cowdrick, warmly.
“Perfectly absurd,” remarked Mrs. Cowdrick.
“But Julius declares he really did paint them. He says he paints nothing but ‘old masters’; that they bring the best prices, and that there is always an active demand for them. He wants me to come to his studio to see a splendid Murillo he has just finished. He is making money rapidly.”
“In that case, Leonie,” said Mr. Cowdrick, with a slight touch of bitterness, as he thought of the prices he had paid for his Correggio and his Titian, but with a certain cheerfulness, gained from his suddenly formed resolution to realize on them to-morrow—“in that case, we must regard Mr. Weems differently. He appears at least to be an enterprising young man, and possibly he may do well.”
“You had better arrange to see him at once, dear,” said Mrs. Cowdrick, “so that you can ascertain what his income is, and how soon the wedding can be arranged.”
“I will do so,” replied Mr. Cowdrick. “But my child, did you tell him anything? Does he know that you have already been engaged three times? Does he know that you were affianced to old Mr. Baxter, who gained your affection under the pretence that he was a millionaire, only to tread upon the holiest of your emotions with the scandalous revelation that he was living upon a paltry pension?”
“No, papa, I did not think it worth while to disturb Julius with such matters as that. What does he care for my past? No more than I care for his!”
“Do you think he suspects your age, dear?” asked Mrs. Cowdrick.
“I am certain he does not. You know I falsified the date in the family Bible, and last evening I got him to look over it with me, under pretense of searching for a text. When I showed him the record, laughingly, he pretended to be surprised. He said he should never have supposed me to be a day over twenty-three.”
Mr. Cowdrick slowly winked that one of his eyes which was upon the side towards his wife, and then he said,—