“Why, I was sent off in a hurry to—” he started.
“Mr. Travis told me to-night,” she interrupted. “I understand now. But really, it makes no difference to me now. Since—since—”
“Now look here,” broke in Travis with feigned lightness,—“I am not going to let you two lovers misunderstand each other. I have planned it all out and I want you both to make me happy by listening to one older, one who admires you both and sincerely wishes to see you happy. Things have happened at your house,” he said addressing Clay—“things which will surprise you when you reach home—things that affect you and me and Miss Conway. Now I know that you love her, and have loved her a long time, and that only—”
“Only our poverty,” said Clay thankfully to Travis for breaking the ice for him.
Helen stood up quickly—a smile on her lips: “Don't you both think that before this bargain and sale goes further you had better get the consent of the one to be sold?” She turned to Clay.
“Don't you think you have queer ideas of love—of winning a woman's love—in this way? And you”—she said turning to Travis—“Oh you know better.”
Travis arose with a smile half joyous, half serious, and Clay was so embarrassed that he mopped his brow as if he were plowing in the sun.
“Why, really, Helen—I—you know—I have spoken to you—you know, and but for my—”
“Poverty”—said Helen taking up the word—“And what were poverty to me, if I loved a man? I'd love him the more for it. If he were dying broken-hearted, wrecked—even in disgrace,—”
Travis flushed and looked at her admiringly, while the joyous light flashed yet deeper in his eyes.