“What difference will that make?” He moved his head impatiently and sighed, throwing himself back on the divan and biting a tassel of one of the cushions. “I dread returning to England. Only this morning I had a letter from my mother. She has some English girl or other picked out for me. At first she wrote a lot about an American girl with a fortune, the daughter of a friend of hers; but now, it seems, these dear friends have quarrelled, or my mother no longer admires Americans. At all events she is all for marrying me to some rich English girl of my own class that she has found.”
“No doubt she is quite right. Please don’t eat up my cushion.”
“I am so sorry!”
“Is the English girl beautiful?”
“I suppose so. My mother would not venture to recommend her otherwise. She knows that I hate ugliness as she does herself—and am not fond of English girls.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let her amuse herself. One thing is positive: I shall marry to please myself.”
“I wonder?”
“What do you mean by that?” Ordham had eyes capable of a great variety of expressions. Now they looked large and cold. “Do you fancy I could be married against my will?”
“Always remember that the cleverest of men is no match for a clever woman, and if two or three clever women—” She halted, recalling her compact. “Why should you object to being steered into the matrimonial harbour by your wise mother? She is far less likely to make a mistake than you are, for you are too indolent to give such a grave subject the proper amount of deliberation. And you would soon tire of any girl you married, for you have the order of mind that demands variety. You can find that in friendships, so why miss the opportunity of an advantageous marriage.”
Ordham set his long jaw. “My mother shall not pick out my wife. The very fact that she insisted upon one of any two girls would make me believe the other was the better suited to all my requirements. I and my mother are too like and too unlike to judge for each other.”