"She won't be different. Her father was a wild Irishman. Besides, I have seen her sort over and over again, and it is positive cruelty to animals to drag the poor creatures from their dull homes into the very centre of life and gayety. They never can make up their minds whether the butler that announces dinner is or is not the latest arrival; and they invariably say, 'No, thank you,' when asked to have anything. To them the fish-knife is a thing unknown and afternoon tea the wildest dissipation."
"Well, I can only hope and trust she will turn out just what you say," says Marcia, laughing.
Four days later, meeting her on his way to the stables, he throws her a letter from his solicitor.
"It is all right," he says, and goes on a step or two, as though hurried, while she hastily runs her eyes over it.
"Well, and now your mind is at rest," she calls after him, as she sees the distance widening between them.
"For the present, yes."
"Well, here, take your letter."
"Tear it up; I don't want it," he returns, and disappears round the angle of the house.
Her fingers form themselves as though about to obey him and tear the note in two. Then she pauses.
"He may want it," she says to herself, hesitating. "Business letters are sometimes useful afterward. I will keep it for him."