“Yes, Miss Fisher is a fine young woman,” he said. “It was a Providence that sent her to you.”
To himself he thought that if the buxom Margaret were his only rival, he could afford to be gracious. And as for her jealousy—well—he could well understand that.
“Won’t you ask Margaret to come with me, Mr. Morton?”
“I shall willingly do so, if you wish,” he replied with a slight dropping of his voice; “but if you came alone it would fit in better with our plan.”
Morton thought he saw a threatening cloud in the distance. “Go slow, old man, go slow,” he said to himself, “let her do the talking.”
To his surprise, however, she dropped the subject.
“When do we start?” she asked.
“There’s a good train at 9:40. Will it be too early if I call for you a little after nine?”
“Oh, no, we breakfast early on Sunday. Shall we go now, Mr. Morton?”
Morton settled the bill and the two left followed by the admiring glances of the late diners in the room. John’s vanity had been suppressed from an early day; his training and habit of mind had made him indifferent to what people might say of him. But as he walked across the spacious salon he could not help noticing the looks sent in Helène’s direction, and felt quite proud. Yes, the girl was worth admiring, he said to himself.