"I'm sure of it!"
And she lifted her head proudly, while her blue eyes shone with enthusiastic fervour. Helmsley made a mental note of her expression, and wondered how he could proceed.
"And you'd like him to marry some 'dear sweet little girl'"—he went on, reflectively—"I'll tell him that you said so!"
She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire.
"Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves," resumed Helmsley—"And in the strength of their dearness and sweetness they sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr. Reay would love very deeply, I should imagine—and I don't think he could bear to be played with or slighted."
"But who would play with or slight such love as his?" asked Mary, with a warm flush on her face—"No woman that knew anything of his heart would wilfully throw it away!"
Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"That story of his about a girl named Lucy Sorrel,"—he began.
"Oh, she was wicked—downright wicked!" declared Mary, with some passion—"Any girl who would plan and scheme to marry an old man for his money must be a worthless creature. I wish I had been in that Lucy Sorrel's place!"
"Ah! And what would you have done?" enquired Helmsley.