“There goes a consignment of men's lives,” said Mrs. Vansittart to her companion.
“A human life, madam,” answered the banker, “like all else on earth, varies much in value.” For Mr. Wade belonged to that class of Englishmen which has a horror of all sentiment, and takes care to cloak its good actions by the assumption of an unworthy motive. And who shall say that this man of business was wrong in his statement? Which of us has not a few friends and relations who can only have been created as a solemn warning?
As Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade stood at the window, Marguerite joined them, slipping her hand within her father's arm with that air of protection which she usually assumed towards him. She was gay and lively, as she ever was, and Mrs. Vansittart glanced at her more than once with a sort of envy. Mrs. Vansittart did not, in truth, always understand Marguerite or her English, which was essentially modern.
They were standing and laughing at the window, when Marguerite suddenly drew them back.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Vansittart.
“It is Lord Ferriby,” replied Marguerite.
And looking cautiously between the lace curtains, they saw the great man drive past in his hired carriage. “He has recently bought Park Straat,” commented Marguerite.
And his lordship's condescending air certainly seemed to suggest that the street, if not the whole city, belonged to him.
Mr. Wade pointed with his thick thumb in the direction in which Lord Ferriby was driving.
“Where is he going?” he asked bluntly.