“Dear me!” ejaculated Mrs. Gault, in a dismayed tone. “You don’t say so! Tishy, for goodness’ sake, look where you’re putting that aigret! You look like Pocahontas, and Tod McCormick’s coming to dinner.”
Letitia arranged the aigret at a more satisfactory angle, her large white arms, shining like marble through the transparent tissue of her sleeves, shielding her face.
“Then,” said Mrs. Gault, returning to the more important subject, “there really may be a chance of his marrying her.”
“I should think a very good one,” answered Letitia, in a low voice.
“Good heavens!” breathed her sister, in the undertone of utter horror, “how awful men are! What makes you think he may intend marrying her?”
“Because,” said Letitia, dropping her arms and turning on her sister with her mouth trembling and her breast agitated with sudden emotion, “no man who was any sort of a man could mean anything else.”
Maud Gault was amazed by the girl’s unexpected emotion. She pushed back her chair, and staring at Letitia, said vaguely:
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Even if he didn’t care, even if he didn’t love her, he’d marry her. Oh, Maud, she’s so helpless and so poor!”