She turned and her blue eyes flashed upon him.
“Once and for all,” she said sharply, “tell me why you hate Leslie so?”
“Tell me why she has poisoned your mind against me?” he retorted.
“She! Leslie Warburton! This goes beyond a joke, sir. Leslie Warburton is what Leslie Uliman was, a lady, in thought, word, and deed. Oh, I can read you, sir! Her crime, in your eyes, is that she has married your brother. Is she not a good and faithful wife; a tender, loving mother to little Daisy? You have hinted that she does not love her husband—by what right do you make the assertion? You believe that she has married for money,—at least these are fashionable sins! Humph! In all probability I shall marry for money myself.”
“Winnifred!”
“I shall; I am sure of it. It’s an admirable feature of our best society. If we are heiresses, we are surrounded with lovers who are fascinated by our bank account. If we are poor, we are all in search of a bank account; and many of us have to do some sharp angling.”
“My sister-in-law angled very successfully.”
“So she did, if you will put it so. And she did not land her last chance; she might have married as wealthy a man as Mr. Warburton, or as handsome a man as his brother. But then,” with a provoking little gesture of disdain, “Leslie and I never did admire handsome men.”
There was just a shade of annoyance in the voice that answered her:
“Pray go on, Miss French; doubtless yourself and Mrs. Warburton have other tastes in common.”