Miss Clermont, who was now thoroughly adapted to her new rank, smiled politely and glided into the adjoining room, closing the door behind her. Said Beatrice: “You can’t imagine how splendid she is. We shall make a fortune. I’m sure we shall. We have rented a shop—in Thirty-second Street—south side—three doors from Fifth Avenue. Frightful rent, but I insisted on beginning at the top.”
“I saw Wade yesterday afternoon,” said Richmond.
The animation died out of the girl’s face. And with its animation departed most of its beauty, at least most of its charm.
“I practically asked him to marry you.”
Her eyes lit up, immediately became dull again.
“He was polite—everything a man could be. But he—he will never marry.”
“Until he loves,” murmured Beatrice.
“There are men—” began Richmond.
“But they don’t love!” exclaimed Beatrice.
“Perhaps so,” said Richmond, who would not have ventured to discuss anything with her, however mildly. Also, no woman, no young woman could be expected to understand that marriage was not the one absorbing longing of every unattached man, as it was of every unattached woman. “Anyhow, he will never marry.”