Craven Black smiled cynically.
“Shall you care what people say?” he inquired. “I thought you were a law unto yourself.”
“Indeed I am not. No woman in the world has a greater regard for ‘they say’ than I have,” returned Lady Wynde emphatically. “You see I cannot afford to turn my back upon Mrs. Grundy. I am ambitious to be a social leader, and to become so, I must give people faith in my knowledge of the proprieties of life. I occupy a high position here as the widow of Sir Harold Wynde, and he was a sort of idol here, so that, I dare say, people will be jealous of my marrying at all. And then, again, I desire to gain the love and confidence of my step-daughter before I remarry. Her guardianship is worth three thousand a year to me. I shall have that sum annually as a recompense for chaperoning her.”
“I would be willing to chaperon several young ladies on such terms,” said Mr. Black. “How old is she?”
“About eighteen.”
“And how large an income has she?”
“Seventy thousand a year.”
An eager light came into Craven Black’s eyes, and an eager glow mounted to his fair face.
“A handsome sum,” he ejaculated. “She has a glorious inheritance. What sort of girl is she?”
“A bread-and-butter school-girl, I suppose. I have never met her. She was Sir Harold’s idol, and he was always wanting her to come home, but I did not want her jealous eyes spying on me, so I contrived to keep her away. She has not been at Hawkhurst since my coming.”