“I 've thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching out his hand for the decanter, and rather desirous of escaping notice; “but, you see, to marry a woman with money,—and of course it's that you mean,—there's always the inquiry what you have yourself, where it is, and what are the charges on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped my estate,—dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won't come up again.”
“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her own disposal.”
“And no friends to advise her.”
O'Shea's face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll that Agincourt laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no friends to advise her. I suppose you don't care much for connection,—I mean rank?”
“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as many wives as Bluebeard, if the law would let me have them.”
“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She's a stunning pretty woman, besides.”
“Where is she?”
“At Rome here.”
“And who is she?”
“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that's on a visit to the Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I can answer for that, for old Nathan told me she was in all the heavy transfers of South American shares, and was a buyer for very large amounts.”