“She is invited because she is beautiful and clever. She would be invited if she had no money at all,” said Rosy daringly. She was actually growing daring, she thought sometimes. It would not have been possible to say anything like this a few months ago.
“Don't make silly mistakes,” said Nigel. “There are a good many handsome girls who receive comparatively little attention. But the hounds of war are let loose, when one of your swollen American fortunes appears. The obviousness of it 'virtuously' makes me sick. It's as vulgar—as New York.”
What befel next brought to Sir Nigel a shock of curious enlightenment, but no one was more amazed than Rosy herself. She felt, when she heard her own voice, as if she must be rather mad.
“I would rather,” she said quite distinctly, “that you did not speak to me of New York in that way.”
“What!” said Anstruthers, staring at her with contempt which was derision.
“It is my home,” she answered. “It is not proper that I should hear it spoken of slightingly.”
“Your home! It has not taken the slightest notice of you for twelve years. Your people dropped you as if you were a hot potato.”
“They have taken me up again.” Still in amazement at her own boldness, but somehow learning something as she went on.
He walked over to her side, and stood before her.
“Look here, Rosalie,” he said. “You have been taking lessons from your sister. She is a beauty and young and you are not. People will stand things from her they will not take from you. I would stand some things myself, because it rather amuses a man to see a fine girl peacocking. It's merely ridiculous in you, and I won't stand it—not a bit of it.”