"I might have had it from yourself, of course," she added with an aggrieved contortion of her features, "but as I was just telling Angela, I would not for worlds intrude upon your confidence."
"But what has he told you?" asked Laura, curiously, "and what, after all, did I tell Uncle Horace?"
Mrs. Payne settled herself comfortably back in her chair, and, picking up a bit of Angela's toast from the tray, nibbled abstractedly at the crust.
"What under heaven would he have told me but the one thing?" she demanded. "Mr. Wilberforce has at last proposed."
"At last!" echoed Laura, breaking into a laugh of unaffected merriment. "Well, he was long about it!"
At the words Angela leaned toward her, stretching out her frail hands in a pleading gesture.
"Don't marry, Laura," she entreated; "don't—don't marry. There is only misery from men—misery and regret."
"I believe he has millions," remarked Mrs. Payne, in the tone in which she might have recited her creed in church, "and as far as a husband goes I have never observed that there was any disadvantage to be found in age. My experience of the world has taught me that decrepitude is the only thing which permanently domesticates a man."
Laura sat down across from her, and then clasping her hands together made her final determined stand.
"You needn't try to persuade me, Aunt Rosa," she answered, "for I wouldn't marry him—no, not if he had billions."