Ladislaw was already there, hat in hand.
“Mr. Metz, grandmother,” she said.
“Ah! Mr. Metz!” the old lady repeated, looking thoughtfully at him. Her calm old eyes seemed terrible to him. “Are you leaving?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment. Then he remembered that Ethel had never seemed to regard her grandmother as especially important. She was old, and poor, and obscure; what harm could she do?
“Yes,” he said. “Ethel and I are going to be married. She’s already sent a telegram to her aunt in the city, to tell her.”
“You are a rash young man,” said the old lady, in a tone almost friendly.
“Rash?” he repeated, with a faint frown.
“Very!” said she. “It is a surprise to me, because I see that you are not American. Americans marry that way—for love; but with the people of Europe, it is often different. They think of how they shall live. They wish a dot—a dowry—something more than love. It is very beautiful, this; because the poor little Ethel will never have anything.”
Metz was too much taken aback to be discreet.
“But she will!” he said. “Her aunt will—”