Later in the day, Mr. Wade called, having driven from The Hague very comfortably in an open carriage.
“The house,” he said placidly, “is still watched, but I have no doubt that Tony has outwitted them all. Creil arrived last night, and seems a capable man. He tells me that half of the malgamiters are in jail at The Hague for intoxication and uproariousness last night. He is selecting those he wants, and the rest he will send to their homes. So we are balancing our affairs very comfortably; and if there is anything I can do for you, Miss Roden, I am at your command.”
“Oh, Dorothy is all right,” said Marguerite, rather hurriedly; and when her father took his leave, she slipped her hand within his solid arm, and walked with him across the sand towards the carriage. “Haven't you seen,” she asked—“you old stupid!—that Dorothy is all right? Tony is in love with her.”
“No,” replied the banker, rather humbly—“no, my dear. I am afraid I had not noticed it.”
Marguerite pressed his arm, not unkindly. “You can't help it,” she explained. “You are only a man, you know.”
The following days were quiet enough at the Villa des Dunes, and it is in quiet days that a friendship ripens best. The two girls left there scarcely expected to hear of Cornish's return for some days; but they fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion.
One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten themselves out.
“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I
shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss
Williams—oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside
them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men—likely
young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants
me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old
dear!”
“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy, with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with regard to this most delicate financial affair.
“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best—his very best. He has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from Dresden—red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do—they wouldn't do, Dorothy!”