“All I know is, I must have him.”
“That’s it, exactly,” cried her mother. “That’s the way it affects anyone who gets possessed by it. If you married under a spell of that sort you’d wonder at yourself afterwards—when you had got enough.”
“But—I wouldn’t ‘get enough,’ as you call it.”
“Oh, yes, you would. They always do.”
“Always?”
Mrs. Richmond shifted ground. “You will never get your father to consent—never!”
“That’s the least of my troubles,” said Beatrice confidently. “The only question is: How could he help me to bring over Roger?”
“How can you be so silly, child!” exclaimed the mother. “That fellow would jump at you just as soon as he found your father consenting.” Mrs. Richmond smiled. “And when he did jump at you— Oh, I know you so well! You’d laugh at him and turn your back on him then.”
“I wonder,” said Beatrice absently. “I wonder.”
“I’m sure of it,” cried her mother with energy.