"No," she said promptly.
"Then refuse him."
"He's too rich to refuse."
"Mabel"--I spoke this time and severely--"you are much too nice a girl to make such a sordid match, and with a man who might be your father. Chuck him, and chuck it, and make Dickey Weston do his duty."
"Which Dickey will be quite willing to do," said Cannington amiably, "especially as he told me that he loved you, Mab."
"Oh," the girl jumped up and with a fine blush threw the half-finished cigarette into the fireplace. "Why didn't you tell me that before, Cannington? I know what I'll do." She reflected for three seconds. "I'll tell Mr. Marr that he shall have his answer as a Christmas box, and meanwhile I'll see if I can't make Dickey jealous. Cannington, you are sure that Dickey said what you say he said?"
"Quite sure. He said it twice."
"Then he must mean it," cried Mabel energetically. "So I can hold off Mr. Marr and make Dickey jealous by pretending to flirt with him. After all I love Dickey and Dickey loves me, so why shouldn't we marry?"
"I am sure," said I cynically, "that if you put the position clearly to Weston in that way he would do his duty."
"I don't want him to do his duty, just as if I was driving him to the altar," she said, much exasperated. "I wouldn't marry Dickey if I didn't love him, not if he were twice as rich."