"Thank you, my dear," he said.
They had paused at the margin of the lake; the gold ripples ran like a pathway from the toe of Mrs. Beale's little shoe to the tall poplars on the opposite bank, through the dark leaves of which the sun blazed, cloudless to its setting.
"You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Beale, gazing at the water. "The wealthy Miss Hilton. La, there has been a power of men after her swinging fortune!"
"That isn't amusing," answered Rose Lyndwood. "I think, my dear, that you had better leave the subject."
"Am I bound to be amusing?" she demanded.
He lifted his hat to a passing acquaintance.
"'Tis your profession," he replied lazily.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You endeavour to put me off—you think me a fool, no doubt; but I know what every fool knows, that old Hilton has been playing for you for a year and more." Her accent was violent and slightly vulgar; she pulled tempestuously at some unhappy roses at her breast and scattered them on the ground. "That doll!" she cried. Then her tone softened. "Well, 'tis the way of the world," and she sighed.