"I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly.
"Well—everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!"
"Nearly as lucky as her sister," says Monkton, growing momentarily more stern in his determination to uphold his own cause.
"Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, "when he—they—told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life."
"Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into his face, that is, however, lost upon her.
"Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world would call a more distinguished match. But his family are unexceptionable, and he has some money—not much, I know, but still, some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. After all"—with noble disregard of the necessaries of life—"what is money?"
"Dross—mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton.
"And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it."
"He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort of thing."
"Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You may go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make Joyce happy."