"More than that: I think he appears to love you very dearly."
"Yes, I really think he does," says my sister, running her fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair.
"And you, Dora—do you love him?"
"Of course, dear. Would I marry him else? Am I the sort of person to sell myself for mere money's sake?" Indignation of the mild and virtuous order is in her tone. "No," says Dora, calmly looking me fair in the eyes, "I would not marry a man unless I loved him—not if he had the mines of Golconda."
This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and justly judge it will be unwise to press the matter farther: so I say, "I am so glad, darling!" but say it very weakly.
"Nevertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, "as I do love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well off. Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound a year. Rather more than you have, dear, is it not?"
No, Dora has not yet forgiven me.
"A great deal more," I say, warmly; "we have only fifteen thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected you would make a far better match than I could."
"Well, yes—perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an admiring glance at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smiles back at her from an opposite mirror.
The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, rising, "just fancy! Dora is—but you shall guess my news—what is she?"