Before his cigar was burned out, Marge had bought a ticket for New York, determined to make a bold stroke for fortune where he felt that he had at heart one faithful friend to aid him. His imagination and pride combined to cheer him on; he would reappear at Tramlay’s, see how the land lay, and if the signs were encouraging he would propose at once, first taking Mrs. Tramlay into his confidence. He had lost enough by hesitation; now he would adopt entirely new tactics, and there was no pleasanter way to begin than by proposing to Lucia. As he had told himself before, she was a very pretty girl, and fully competent, with such guidance as he would give her, to make the most of her new advantages.
Reaching New York at nightfall, he lost no time in dressing with extreme care and making his way to the Tramlay abode. He would have no difficulty in explaining his long absence to the ladies; perhaps they had heard of his disaster in E. & W., but he could tell them that he had been largely interested in a rich silver-mine ever since. There would be nothing untrue in that statement; had he not been so deeply interested that he could not sleep a wink during the week while the title to the Brighthope mine—curse the rocky hole!—was first in doubt? Besides, women were sure to talk, and equally sure not to diminish the size of a story while telling it: quite likely his tale, repeated by Mrs. Tramlay and Lucia, might have the effect of restoring him to the regard of the many people who estimate a man solely by his money.
As he entered the house he was satisfied that his operations would not be postponed by the announcement “not at home,” for through the open door he heard familiar voices in the rear of the parlor, and he saw several heads bent over a table. None of them seemed to belong to strangers: so he entered with the freedom to which long acquaintance entitled him. The backs of the entire party were towards him, so his presence was not observed: besides, an animated discussion seemed to be going on between Lucia and Margie.
“I think you’re real mean,” he heard Margie say. Then he heard Lucia reply,—
“No, I’m not. Am I, mamma?”
“No,” said Mrs. Tramlay, as Marge approached close enough to see that they were looking at the floor-plan of a house, spread upon the table.
“My heart is set upon having that room for my very own,” said Margie. “The young lady of the family always has first choice, after her parents.”
“Not where there is a bride to be provided for,” Mrs. Tramlay replied.
“Well said, mamma. There, Margie,” said Lucia; “that room is for Phil and me.”
“Here,” said Tramlay, entering from the library, with a large sheet of paper in his hand, “is the plan of—— Why, Marge!—bless my soul!—when did you get back, old fellow?”