Mildred looked and waited.
"I didn't intend to say anything to-night. In fact, I didn't expect to find in you what I've been looking for. I thought that old fool of a stepfather of yours was cracking up his goods beyond their merits. But he wasn't. My dear, you suit me from the ground up. I've been looking you over carefully. You were made for the place I want to fill."
Mildred had lowered her eyes. Her face had become deathly pale. "I feel faint," she murmured. "It is very warm here."
"You're not sickly?" inquired the general sharply. "You look like a good solid woman—thin but wiry. Ever been sick? I must look into your health. That's a point on which I must be satisfied."
A wave of anger swept through her, restoring her strength. She was about to speak—a rebuke to his colossal impudence that he would not soon forget. Then she remembered, and bit her lips.
"I don't ask you to decide to-night," pursued he, hastening to explain this concession by adding: "I don't intend to decide, myself. All I say is that I am willing—if the goods are up to the sample."
Mildred saw her stepfather and her mother watching from just within the conservatory door. A movement of the portiere at the door into the hall let her know that Darcy, the butler, was peeping and listening there. She stood up, clenched her hands, struck them together, struck them against her temples, crossed the room swiftly, flung herself down upon a sofa, and burst into tears. Presbury and his wife entered. Siddall was standing, looking after Mildred with a grin. He winked at Presbury and said:
"I guess we gave her too much of that wine. It's all old and stronger than you'd think."
"My daughter hardly touched her glasses," cried Mrs. Presbury.
"I know that, ma'am," replied Siddall. "I watched her. If she'd done much drinking, I'd have been done, then and there."