“But is it? What does it matter whom you marry, so long as you have no purpose in life other than to make a show and to induce shallow people to admire you and envy you for the things you’ve got that can be bought and sold? It’s better, on the whole, isn’t it, my friend, that you should carry out these purposes through a foreigner, and in a foreign country, than that you should spoil some promising American and be a bad influence here?”
“You are cruel, Joe. And I thought you’d sympathise with me, and help me!”
There was a pause, then he demanded abruptly: “What does your father say?”
She flushed—partly at the memory of the interview with her father, partly through shame in recollecting that she had led Frothingham to believe she had not told him. “He said—but why should I tell you?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, unless because you wish to.”
“Well—I will tell you. He said” (she imitated his nasal drawl): “‘If your ma and you want to make the deal I’ll sign the papers. I reckon you know what you’re about. And all our money’s for is to make us happy. Buy what you please—I’ll settle for it.’”
Catherine lowered her eyes. “Yes, that was all he said. But he looked—Joe, it was his look that upset me.”
“I understand.” Wallingford’s voice was gentle and sympathetic now. “And what answer are you going to make to that look?”
“I’d rather not say,” she replied, giving him a brilliant smile. “Let’s canter again. We must get home.”