"I am quite ready to when you will marry me," he retorted.
"But, my dear man, I am bespoke," she reminded him. "You know that quite well. I couldn't possibly think of marrying anybody."
"What are you going to do with that money?" he demanded.
"I think I shall keep it," she decided. "Not to do so would hurt him terribly."
"And keeping it hurts me damnably!" he muttered.
She shook her head at him.
"We've had this over so often, haven't we? I cannot leave Reginald as long as he wants me, relies upon me as much as he does now."
"Why not?" was the almost rough demand. "He has had the best of your life."
"And he has given me a great deal of his," she retorted. "For nineteen years I have been his very dear friend. During all that time he has never broken a promise to me, never told a falsehood, never said a single word which could grate or hurt. If he has sometimes seemed a little aloof, it is because he really believes himself to be a great person. He believes in himself immensely, you know, James—in the privileges and sanctity of his descent. It seems so strange in this world, where we others see other things. If I only dared, I would write a novel about it."
"But you don't care for him any more?"