"No," said Claude. "We haven't quarrelled in three months."
"But you haven't seen her more than once or twice in that time."
"That's why, father!"
"Well, I'm glad you're not on bad terms with her, anyhow," repeated Mr. Fontaine, a deep interest beneath his affected unconcern.
"Oh, no. On as good terms as she'll allow. I don't know whether you've observed it, father, but it isn't easy to break through Marjorie's reserve."
"You don't mean she's a cold nature!"
"Only when Lord Dunbar is around."
The trace of petulance in this reply was the scar of an old wound. Claude, always first among his rivals on the battlefield of love, had once been obliged to yield the supremacy. This had happened about a year before, when the young Earl of Dunbar came to Newport in Marjorie's train. With two fine strings to her bow, Marjorie actually made Claude her second string. This sensation had been the talk of the smart set from Bar Harbor to Palm Beach. And Claude had never quite forgiven the very serious blow to his pride.
Mr. Rene Fontaine had no fault to find with Marjorie's supercilious airs and snobbish predelictions. He liked and admired her unreservedly and thought it quite natural that, in choosing a husband, she should prefer a titled Englishman to a Yankee commoner. Why not? That London was the real capital of American fashionable society was, after all, a fact no socially ambitious American girl could be expected to ignore.
"I don't think she ever cared for Dunbar," ventured Mr. Fontaine. "At all events, he's gone."