"Yes, marriage. Young girls think of such things, do they not?"
Wishing to find out what he meant, Beatrice fenced. "I have no chance of marrying, father," she observed, regaining her composure.
"I grant that, unless you have fallen in love with Jerry Snow; and I credit you with too much sense, to think you could love a fool."
"Mr. Snow is to marry Miss Paslow," announced Beatrice coldly, and kept her eyes on the wizen face before her.
"Oh," sneered Alpenny, "Hunger wedding Thirst. And how do they intend to live, may I ask?"
"That is their business, and not ours."
"Paslow hasn't a penny to give to his giggling sister, and very soon he won't have a roof over his head."
"What do you mean by that, father?"
"Mean!" The usurer stretched out a skinny hand, which resembled the claw of a bird of preys as he looked like. "Why, I mean, my girl, that I hold Vivian Paslow there," and he tapped his palm.
"Still I don't understand," said Beatrice, her blood running cold at the malignant look on his face.