“You’ve always got your eye open for the main chance,” observed St. John, “and ought to make a good business woman. You’ll be pondering the intrinsic value of that present within half-an-hour. Personally, I shall be thoroughly satisfied if I hear that he wins Evie.”
Jill looked up at him swiftly, and slipped her hand into his with a smile.
“I don’t mind who wins Evie now,” she said, “but I was horribly anxious once. I don’t believe that I really felt quite safe until this little gold band was placed on my finger, and then I knew that not even Miss Bolton could take you away from me.”
“Possession is only nine-tenths of the law,” interposed St. John; but he squeezed the small hand lovingly, lying so confidingly in his, so that, feeling the pressure, and meeting his earnest gaze, Jill was too thoroughly happy even to retort.
Chapter Thirteen.
Mr St. John, Senior’s, wrath knew no bounds when he received his son’s note and learnt that he had taken the irrevocable step and actually married the art mistress. He passed the letter on to his niece with Thompkins and Co.’s card, and turned away from the lunch-table too disgusted to eat his food. Evie Bolton took things more quietly. She had realised her defeat from the first, and accepted it as she did the announcement of her cousin’s marriage with a composure that did more credit to her head than to her heart. She read the letter through without comment, and studied the card. Then she looked up with a little laugh.
“How funny,” she said. “I will go and have my photograph taken there.”
Mr St. John said nothing. He just wheeled about shortly and left the room, but when he got outside his language was more forcible than polite, and he kicked Miss Bolton’s pet pug right across the hall. For the first time he saw the heiress with his son’s eyes.