His silence was assent.
“You see. I’ve got to buy her a husband—that is, a title—over here. This offering seems as good as there is in the market—at the price. So—why not?”
“That’s one view of it,” said he coldly.
I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Come now—be sensible,” said I. “What else can I do?”
“It would be an impertinence for me to say,” replied he.
“I can guess,” said I. “You needn’t trouble yourself to say it. You evidently don’t know the circumstances. And I may add that so long as I’ve got to buy Margot a title I might as well buy her a good one.”
He eyed me sharply. But I did not take him into my confidence—nor shall I confide in you at present, gentle reader. I did not even let him see that I was holding back anything. I went on with good-humored raillery:
“I’m doing better than Hanley or Vanderveld or Pattison or any of the others who’ve dealt in these markets. For a marquis Crossley is selling cheap. He’s far from penniless, you know. It’s simply that he wants more money. Why, really, old man, it’s what’s called a love match. They always call it a love match when the nobleman isn’t absolutely on his uppers.”
“You are certainly a philosopher, Loring,” said Norman, anxious, I saw, to finish and drop the affair.
“And I became one in the usual way—necessity,” said I. “I’m as eager to have this thing dispatched as you are. I want to get out to sea, where perhaps the stench of aristocracy will blow out of my nostrils, and stay out of them till I reach the other shore. Then I’ll get it again. It blows down the bay to meet the incoming ships.”