“I do not pretend to vie with such experience, but, myself, I never saw anything so lovely as Mabel. Leaning on that railing, she looks like The Blessed Damozel. But it should be painted. Of course it gives no idea of her exquisite colouring—pink and white and gold and brown. And such soft pathetic eyes!” The Nachmeister looked almost sad.
“Those fluffy American beauties are passée at twenty-five. I like women to be handsome at forty—as our women are,” he hastened to add.
“Of course, mon enfant. At your age the woman of forty, or a little less, nicht? is part of Life’s curriculum. So is the unhappy wife who wants sympathy—and all the rest of them. Fortunately there are the Mabel Cuttings to marry.”
“Is she being trotted out for my inspection?”
“What if she were? Do you fancy that you can ever do better? Youth, beauty, gentle blood, millions—and you merely look bored? I have no patience with you.”
“I am in no hurry to marry.”
“But one day you must—is it not so? I can speak plainly, for I am an old woman of the world that has grown fond of you, and there is no mystery about you whatever. Inheritance to the titles and estates of your family is by no means assured, at best is remote. You are entering one of the most expensive of careers and your habits are extravagant. Your income is small and your brother miserly. So do not be the baby you sometimes look and are not, and give Mabel Cutting a definite place in your calculations.”
“What has she in her own right?”
“Eight or ten millions—dollars, of course. Forty million marks! Ach Gott! I have known Adela Cutting for twenty years. There is no doubt whatever that her husband’s fortune was one of the largest in America; and I remember perfectly the account of his death and will. There were no other heirs.”
“What of this plot to marry me to the daughter of Herr von Schmidt?”