"You are there, after all, Mr. Hope."
Hope was delighted. Why, it was him she had come to see, after all. He came down to her directly, radiant, and then put on a stiff manner he often had to wear, out of fidelity to Bartley, who did not deserve it.
"This is early for you to be out, Miss Bartley."
"Of course it is," said she. "But I know it is the time of day when you are kind to anybody that comes, and mend all their rubbish for them, and I could kill them for their impudence in wasting your time so. And I am as bad as the rest. For here I am wasting your time in my turn. Yes, dear Mr. Hope, you are so kind to everybody and mend their things, I want you to be kind to me and mend—my prospects for me."
Hope's impulse was to gather into his arms and devour with kisses this sweet specimen of womanly tenderness, frank inconsistency, naïveté, and archness.
As he could not do that, he made himself extra stiff.
"Your prospects. Miss Bartley! Why, they are brilliant. Heiress to all the growing wealth and power around you."
"Wealth and power!" said the girl. "What is the use of them, if our hearts are to be broken? Oh, Mr. Hope, papa is so unkind. He has forbidden me to speak to him." Then, gravely, "That command comes too late."
"I fear it does," said Hope. "I have long suspected something."
"Suspected?" said Mary, turning pale. "What?"