"I'd marry her," Tetlow went on, "if I knew she was simply using me in the coldest, most calculating way. My only fear is that I shan't be able to get her—that she won't marry me."
Norman sneered. "That's not likely," he said.
"No, it isn't," admitted Tetlow. "They—the Hallowells—are nice people—of as good family as there is. But they're poor—very poor. There's only her father and herself. The old man is a scientist—spends most of his time at things that won't pay a cent—utterly impractical. A gentleman—an able man, if a little cracked—at least he seemed so to me who don't know much about scientific matters. But getting poorer steadily. So I think she will accept me."
A gloomy, angry frown, like a black shadow, passed across Norman's face and disappeared. "You'd marry her—on those terms?" he sneered.
"Of course I hope for better terms——"
Norman sprang up, strode to the window and turned his back.
"But I'm prepared for the worst. The fact is, she treats me as if she didn't care a rap for the honor of my showing her attention."
"A trick, Billy. An old trick."
"Maybe so. But—I really believe she doesn't realize. She's queer—has been queerly brought up. Yes, I think she doesn't appreciate. Then, too, she's young and light—almost childish in some ways. . . . I don't blame you for being disgusted with me, Fred. But—damn it, what's a man to do?"
"Cure himself!" exploded Norman, wheeling violently on his friend. "You must act like a man. Billy, such a marriage is ruin for you. How can we take you into partnership next year? When you marry, you must marry in the class you're moving toward, not in any of those you're leaving behind."