“You mean that I refuse to be misled by your charming little pretences. But how could I? Why, don’t I remember the day, the very hour, you went in for the ‘soulful’? I must say, I never could see why you took that up as your fad. Being natural is much harder to win out at—few people are interesting, or even endurable, when they’re natural.”
“Joe,” she said absently, as if she had not heard him, “I’m afraid I’m making a—a dreadful—mistake.”
“Well?” he asked almost gruffly, after a short pause.
“About—about—Lord Frothingham,” she confessed, lowering her eyelids until her long lashes shadowed her cheeks.
“Oh, I think you’ll land him all right,” said Wallingford encouragingly. “He’s a bit gone on you; and then, too, he needs the cash.”
“Please don’t speak of him in that way, Joe. He’s not a vulgar fortune-hunter, but a high, sensitive, noble man.”
“Who said he was a vulgar fortune-hunter? On the contrary, he’s an honest British merchant, taking his title to market. And he’s been lucky enough to find a good customer.”
Catherine ignored this description of her knight and her romance. “You know I’m engaged to him?” she asked.
“Ever since the first time I saw your mother look at him.”
“Yes—she approves it.”