“But he made me a sign, my dear; with his eyeglass, dear.”
“Let him make a hundred,” cried Cora angrily. “He is not going to play with me. Why, he’s hanging about after that chit of Denville’s.”
“Tchah! Cora dear. I wouldn’t be jealous of a washed-out doll of a thing like that. Half-starved paupers; and with the disgrace of that horrid murder sticking all over their house.”
“Jealous!” cried Cora, with a contemptuous laugh; “jealous of her! Not likely, mother; but I mean to make that old idiot smart if he thinks he is going to play fast and loose with me. Come along.”
Without noticing the approaching figure, she turned up the next street, veiling her beautiful eyes once more with their long lashes, and gliding over the pavement with her magnificent figure full of soft undulations that the grotesque fashion of the dress of the day could not hide.
“Oh, Cora, my darling,” said her mother, “how can you be so mad and obstinate!—throwing away your chances like that.”
“Chances? What do you mean?” cried the beauty.
“Why, you know, my dear. He has never married yet; and he’s so rich, and there’s his title.”
“And are we so poor that we are to humble ourselves and beg because that man has a title?”
“But it is such a title, Betsy,” whispered the elder woman.