“Need you tell him of Polly?” whispered my father in Dan's ear.
“No; it's just as well not.” “I'd tell him, Dan; the thing is done, and cannot be undone,” continued he, in the same undertone.
“As you please.”
“We mean to show you such a girl, Rutledge, as probably not St. James's itself could match. When I tell you she 'll have not very far from half a million sterling, I think it's not too much to say that your English Court has n't such a prize in the wheel.”
“It 's Westrop's daughter you mean?”
“Not a bit of it, man. Dorothy won't have fifty thousand. I doubt greatly if she 'll have thirty; and as to look, style, and figure, she's not to compare with the girl I mean.”
“The Lady Lucy Lighton? and she is very beautiful, I confess.”
“Lucy Lighton! Why, what are you thinking of? Where would she get the fortune I am speaking of? But you'd never guess the name; you never saw her,—perhaps never so much as heard of her. She is a Miss Fagan.”
“Polly—Polly Fagan, the Grinder's daughter?”
“So, then, you have heard of her?” said Dan, not a little disconcerted by this burst of intelligence.