She laughed. “Now you are being absurd! If you were told that it would be necessary to approach me with some show of love-making, you were badly advised. Ours would be a marriage of convenience. I could contemplate nothing else. I like you very well, but you are not at all the sort of man to arouse those warmer passions in my breast. But I see no reason why that should worry either of us. If you were romantic, it would be a different matter.”
“I fear,” said Sir Richard, “that I must be very romantic”
“I suppose you are jesting again,” she replied, with a faint shrug.
“Not at all. I am so romantic that I indulge my fancy with the thought of some woman—doubtless mythical—who might desire to marry me, not because I am a very rich man, but because—you will have to forgive the vulgarity—because she loved me!”
She looked rather contemptuous. “I should have supposed you to be past the age of fustian, Richard. I say nothing against love, but, frankly, love-matches seem to me a trifle beneath us. One would say you had been hobnobbing with the bourgeoisie at Islington Spa, or some such low place! I do not forget that I am a Brandon. I dare say we are very proud; indeed, I hope we are!”
“That,” said Sir Richard dryly, “is an aspect of the situation which, I confess, had not so far occurred to me.”
She was amazed. “I had not thought it possible! I imagined everyone knew what we Brandons feel about our name, our birth, our tradition!”
“I hesitate to wound you, Melissa,” said Sir Richard, “but the spectacle of a woman of your name, birth, and tradition, cold-bloodedly offering herself to the highest bidder is not one calculated to impress the world with a very strong notion of her pride.”
“This is indeed the language of the theatre!” she exclaimed. “My duty to my family demands that I should marry well, but let me assure you that, even that could not make me stoop to ally myself with one of inferior breeding.”
“Ah, this is pride indeed!” said Sir Richard, faintly smiling.