“Yes, you may rate her at two thousand a year,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “I suppose you can match that yourself. So the disparity disappears.”
The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out.
“There are unfortunately other disparities,” he remarked gloomily.
“Put a name on them,” said she.
“There's her rank.”
His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn.
“Her rank, do you say?” she cried. “To the mischief with her rank. What's rank to love? A woman is only a woman, whether she calls herself a duchess or a dairy-maid. A woman with any spirit would marry a bank manager, if she loved him. A man's a man. You should n't care that for her rank.”
“That,” was a snap of Mrs. O' Donovan Florence's fingers.
“I suppose you know,” said Peter, “that I am a Protestant.”
“Are you—you poor benighted creature? Well, that's easily remedied. Go and get yourself baptised directly.”